


Pair Dadeni

by afterandalasia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bargaining, Brainwashing, Canon Era, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Character Study, Community: paperlegends, Cŵn Annŵn, Dark, F/F, Hellhounds, Magic, Minor Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Mythical Beings & Creatures, Obsession, Original Character Death(s), Past Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Prophecy, Unrequited Arthur Pendragon/Vivian (Merlin), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon, post-S4. Found half-dead in the forests on the edge of Camelot, Morgana awakes instead in Essetir and held captive by King Olaf. He offers her a deal: he will let her live and go free, provided she lifts the years-old magic which still leaves Vivian desperately in love with King Arthur of Camelot. Though at first disdainful, Morgana finds herself becoming caught up in the task.</p><p>As she works, and recovers from her injuries, news starts to filter in: of strange beasts on the hills of Powys, and disappearances into the darkness. She suspects from the beginning that it is magic, but does not voice her suspicions to Olaf until the danger is almost at the castle gate. The Cŵn Annŵn ride on the hills again, and Olaf fears that they are coming for Vivian. And somehow, Morgana finds herself wishing to defend this Kingdom, even if it means standing before the commander of the hellhounds herself. Oh, and Vivian's spell does get broken. Just not in the way that anyone expected.</p><p>For background pairings and full warnings, see notes (at beginning).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, my first long story in Merlin fandom -- and my longest story to date. And it has been a total blast. This story came together in bits and pieces over the months, with various ideas and scenes coming to me all at different times.
> 
> Be sure to check out murderdetective's beautiful [artwork](http://murderdetective.livejournal.com/25955.html)!
> 
> First up, I want to thank the_muppet for running such an amazing fest and comm single-handedly and with such style. I stand in awe of your remarkable skills. Secondly, my thanks to wonderful artist (and pinchhitter) murderdetective for her beautiful, beautiful artwork which really helped me to pull together and finish this story. Finally, of course, a huge, huge thanks to sophinisba for her beta work on the fic, darkstar1991 for putting up with my incessant questions at strange hours of the day, and tassosss for poking, cajoling and otherwise cheerleading me into keeping with this.
> 
> Big bangs are a really communal event, and I really hope that this post acknowledges that. For one name on the posts, there are many people behind it. Thank you all!
> 
>  
> 
> Background pairings: one-sided Arthur/Vivian as canon, background Arthur/Gwen, past Morgana/Gwen, possible past Morgana/Morgause.
> 
> Warnings: Spoilers for all series. Past character death as canon, violence, gore; dark magic; kidnap, captivity; mental illness, obsession and brainwashing as related to the spell placed on Vivian.

The last thing that she remembered was dying. It was a curious feeling, with blood dripping between her fingers and the very air around her becoming strangely soft, folding around her like fine linens. Then there was an impression of whiteness, and the drift of magic across her skin, before the world faded away from around her.

It had been many years since she had known deep sleep, and this was deeper still. Down into the depths of herself, cold and dark and lonely, and it was difficult to rouse the fire of her anger in the way that she had before. For a long time she let go, without the strength now to hold back the waves of what lay within her.

Somewhere, there was movement. Something might have covered her, might have shut out the sunlight, or it could simply have been night. The pain was dull and distant, and she couldn’t feel the magic that usually filled her. At least, though, the darkness was complete, and there were no dreams to disturb her.

Later, much later, she realised that she could feel her flesh once again. Her side throbbed, hot, but not so much as she remembered it being. She was lying on her back, her arms stretched out on either side of her, a heavy coverlet seeming to pin her down. She wondered whether that was just her own weakness, the weakness that soaked through her body like the heaviness of exhaustion. Mustering all of her strength, she flexed the fingers of her right hand just slightly, feeling them tighten infinitesimally before releasing them with a sigh. The sound of movement caught her attention, and she stiffened where she lay, reaching out of the darkness and into wakefulness with fear gripping at her chest.

She had carried a dagger before. Now she could feel only fabric next to her skin. Even her bracelet no longer lay on her wrist, and she felt bare without it.

“Lady Morgana,” said a voice. She opened her eyes to see white fabric above her. “You are awake.”

“I’m still working on alive.” Her voice cracked, but she found the words, even though running her tongue over her dry lips did nothing to help. “I must presume you do not want me dead.”

“On that, I am ambivalent. But of the magic users to whom I have spoken, there are few who did not name you as the most powerful of their kind. The last Priestess of the Old Religion.”

She remembered the words, faintly. There had been so many names. Morgana le Fey, for the longest of times; then she found herself Morgana Pendragon, and it had uprooted her world at the same time as it might just have offered her an answer to the riddles that had plagued her for so long. But much of the time she had refused both, and been simply Morgana, witch, sorceress. Those had been the simplest times.

She tried to draw her arms back into her body, only to feel soft ropes tighten around her wrists. A faint frown drew itself on her face, and she turned to look over her right side. The white band around her wrist might have been discreet, but it held her down more than well enough in her weakened state.

“Ah, yes. My apologies for treating a Princess so, but your reputation does, of course, precede you. And I would rather not have things turn nasty.”

Finally, her mind recovered enough for her to recognise the voice: King Olaf of Powys, for many years a very careful ally of Uther’s. Morgana turned her head so that she could look upon him, but was surprised by what she saw: Olaf sat on a chair beside the bed, slumped forwards with his elbows on his knees. It had not been that long since she had last seen him, but she was quite sure that there were new lines on his face, more grey in his hair.

“The bonds are old, and they are meant for magic-users. You will not be able to rise whilst I have this.” He held up his right hand, a matching white band wrapped around it and tied soundly. “I do not pretend to know how it works, simply that it will restrain you for now. I wish to speak to you civilly.”

“By tying me down? Civil indeed.” She could not help the bite that came into her voice. Anger flashed in Olaf’s eyes and for a moment she thought that she might have already overstepped the line that held her life in place, but he merely wrapped his hands tightly around each other and stared hard at her.

“You hardly left Camelot peacefully. I did not want bloodshed on my hands. No, my lady, I wish to come to an agreement with you. Despite the Five Kingdoms baying for your blood, I am willing to grant you sanctuary – and in return, I wish for you to use your magic for me.”

“You followed Uther in banning magic. But when it suits your own devices, you will use it still?”

He shrugged. “I doubt there is a father in the world who would not do the same.”

The words made her eyes narrow. Olaf was known above all else, even above his skill in war, for how protective he was of Vivian. His only daughter, as beautiful as the late Queen but far more spoilt and petulant; Vivian and Morgana had been of an age when they were growing up, but on the occasions when they had found themselves in each other’s company, they had barely been able to exchange words without Vivian making a fuss or, just as commonly, Morgana producing a wooden sword and proceeding to try to beat the silly chit with the flat of it.

“Vivian is unwell? By some magic?”

“I do not know,” he said flatly. “But I expect you to find out, and then I expect you to fix it. In return for your compliance… I have already had healers at your side, and I will continue to offer you the protection of my court.”

“And if I do not comply?” Though it had not been that long since she had considered Olaf’s court a cousin to Uther’s, there were few parts of her past life for which Morgana could truly say she held any lingering love.

Olaf gave her a pained look, clasping his hands together once again. When he spoke, it took no discerning ear to hear the reluctance in his voice, nor to see it where he broke with her gaze for a moment before looking back once again. “Then I will return you to Camelot,” he replied, “and let their law deal with you.”

A sneer curled her lip, though doubtless it would look more impressive from a position other than the one which she currently occupied. “You think that my brother would have the nerve to kill me?”

“You tried to kill him,” said Olaf quietly. “And even if there is compassion left in his heart for you, I doubt that all of his Kingdom would feel the same.”

To that, Morgana could find no response, and she turned her head away in what was meant to be a haughty toss but ended up being accompanied with a grunt of pain. As if in response to her sharp movement, a ripple of pain spread out from her neck, down across her body, and she was forced to close her eyes whilst the waves receded. By the time that her own heartbeat stopped pounding in her ears, she could hear the door to the room opening, and Olaf’s final words came from rather more of a distance.

“One of the servants will be in soon, to bring you something to eat. I appreciate that you will need some time to recover, but do not expect to abuse that time. The library of Camelot is not the only one which has retained many of its tomes on magic. I will speak to you further in a few days.”

Then the door closed with a heavy-sounding thud, and she was left alone with her thoughts once again.

 

 

 

 

 

It was not pleasant, to be trapped in her own head. Once, there had been a time when Morgana had thought wistfully of having time to think, fully and without interruption. Then the dreams had come, and deepened, and bought with them their dreadful knowledge, and slowly drawn her away. Now such a time was a far-off memory. She scowled at the far wall of the room, and tried to slip back into sleep for at least a short time longer.

It was less difficult than she had feared, and though her dreams were filled with the baying of the hunt and the copper-salt of blood, she had long grown used to such. By the time that she opened her eyes again she felt, if not refreshed, then at least less weary than she had before. She again made the mistake of shifting her weight, and pain washed over her, but it was less this time than before, and with a couple of deep breaths she was able to see past it. Her hands clenched into fists and drew back into her body sharply, and it was only when she could see clearly enough to realise such that she realised also that she was no longer tied down. Although the white bands still encircled her wrists – some sort of sateen, she noted dully – she could at least move them.

“You’re awake, then,” said a perfunctory voice. Morgana did not have time to turn her head, at least with the slowness that such an action would have required in her current state, before large soft arms were wrapped around her and she was drawn – hissing with pain, but still generally coherent – to a seated position. The woman did not say anything further as she pushed Morgana’s hair back off her face and plumped the pillows around her, every shift reverberating through Morgana’s bones and making her grit her teeth – though gently, for that action also threatened to pain her.

She shot the woman a glare, the sort that had made knights and councillors quail in their boots for fear of her tongue, not even her blade or her magic. This time, however, it did not have the desired response, and the woman simply hitched up the sheets to cover Morgana’s lap.

Even sitting felt like a great effort, every muscle in her torso seeming to strain just to hold her in place. She pressed her tongue between her teeth to control her breathing, and then the woman was drawing a chair up to the edge of the bed, and holding in her lap a wooden tray with a bowl of porridge, a metal cup and a flagon.

The woman scooped up a spoonful of the porridge, tapped it very gently on the edge of the bowl, and then proffered it up to Morgana’s lips. A sting of humiliation ran down her spine: she had never in her memory been fed like an infant. Now, though, she could not even have raised her arms from her lap, and she parted her lips as she realised that hunger as well as strain was cramping in her stomach. The porridge was milky, sweetened with honey, and she swore that the prickling in her eyes was not tears as she gulped down the mouthfuls offered to her.

She could not suppress the slight whimper that escaped her when, after what seemed like too short a time, no more was forthcoming. Even as a young girl in Uther’s household, she had been aware of the work that must go on to support her, and as she had become older she had made sure that she knew what to do that she might never find herself without a source of food. Only when the whole of Camelot had gone hungry – fool Arthur, fool hunters, she had dreamt of the unicorn dead on the forest floor – had she done so also. Yet now her stomach twisted, and she managed to raise her hands half up before the woman shook her head.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” she said flatly, instead decanting in swift movements the flagon into the cup, and placing it into Morgana’s hands instead. “Here, have some of this.”

She kept her hands wrapped around Morgana’s to assist in raising the glass, and the cool clean water washed over her palate like a blessing. She swallowed as much as she could, then coughed on a wayward trickle and felt water spill down over her chin. The cup was removed once again, and she wiped her mouth with the back of one shaking hand.

“There,” said the woman. “Now, I’ll leave this here,” she placed it on the low table beside the bed, “and someone will be back in a couple of hours.”

Morgana nodded, still almost overwhelmed, and allowed herself to be shifted back to a mostly-flat position once again. The room seemed to have shifted into better focus, and though the pain she felt had sharper edges, she could reach those edges with her mind and feel the finite nature of them. There was something beyond the pain; there would be something beyond the pain. She let her eyes drift closed again and, not quite awake, not quite asleep, waited for the next intrusion.  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
__  
  
**Interlude**   
  
  


  


_Mist rolled down over the slopes of the hills. The moon was some days past new, a waxing crescent just visible amid the dripping diadems of stars that draped across the sky. The weather was cold; it was likely to turn to frost soon, Rheda thought as she hitched her cloak more tightly around her and hurried along the narrow path home. It was never too easy to be a midwife in these parts, but now winter was closing in fast and Cate had always been the sort of girl to spook easily, something which had only become worse over the course of her first pregnancy._

_The path was turning to mud, and she wondered whether it would be worth getting the men to bring up gravel from some of the valleys to harden the way. A slight slip was worth a faint curse, nothing more, until a loud howl, like the largest hunting dog she had ever heard, made her cry out in shock herself and lose her footing on the unhelpful ground._

_It had sounded as if it had been almost upon her. Gasping, her breath like a stream of little white clouds in the air, Rheda struggled to her feet again and looked around her, expecting to see the dog appearing out of nowhere. Again came the howling, a great long wail of a sound that set the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end and made her clench her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. It was a little fainter this time, however, and she settled that wherever the dog was, it was getting further away._

_“Some fool man letting the beast loose,” she muttered, peering at her cloak in the moonlight and none too impressed to see the amount of mud that was smeared upon it. “Hunting hounds in this land, indeed!” The most common creatures to be found on the hills were humans and sheep, and neither of those were for the hunting. “I hope he chases the damn thing into a morass tomorrow morn.”_

_Still grumbling to herself, she continued on up the slope, the ground becoming drier and the mist falling away as she climbed. There was something beautifully clear about the top of the hills even on nights like this, dimly green and smoothly rolling, when the air was heavy enough that the clouds could not even settle on them. The wind, however, picked up a little, plucking at stray strands of her hair and plastering her warm wool clothes more tightly against her; that was unusual, but not unthinkable, and all that it did was hurry her steps a little more._

_She heard the baying a third time, now very faint indeed and with the tinny echo of distance, and gave a satisfied grunt. It must be moving quickly indeed if it disappeared from her hearing range so quickly._

_White flickered on the edge of her vision._

_Rheda’s head snapped round, but there was no white, no gleaming brightness, that she could see on the hilltops. Not even beneath the bright moon. She was about ready to acknowledge the night as too long, too arduous, when there was movement once again in the corner of her eye, and she felt herself begin to tremble as, slow and mournful, she heard singing on the cool, night air._

_"Chwarae troi'n chwerw, wrth chwarae gyda thân."_

_The quiet on the hilltops was broken by the screaming._


	2. Chapter 2

Olaf did not bother to knock on the door at the top of the tower, simply removing the key from his pocket and letting himself in. The walk through the castle and up the tower stairs had in itself been strenuous, and Morgana had needed to pause more than once to catch her breath. He had allowed her to do so, though with an unsmiling expression.

There was no protest as the door was opened; in fact, no reaction at all. Morgana scanned the room in a moment, mentally declared it to be nothing unusual in a bed chamber, and then allowed her eyes to fall upon the figure framed by the window, looking out through bars onto the land below.

“Vivian,” said Olaf, as Morgana was still looking at the bars and feeling horror slide slowly down her back at the sight of them. “I have bought you a visitor.”

Vivian looked round sharply, then raised her nose into the air and turned back to the window. “It is not Arthur.”

Embroidery sat untouched on Vivian’s lap, a golden dragon against a plain red background. Morgana wondered if she was copying it out of a book, or reproducing it from memory. Vivian’s fingers were red and raw, the nails cut short; there was a flighty look to her eyes, shadows beneath them. Though Morgana could not be sure, she thought that the princess might be thinner than the last time that they had met.

“I am a Pendragon, though,” Morgana replied, acid creeping into her voice. Olaf gave her a sideways glance that might have been a warning, but said nothing.

A moment passed, and then Vivian set down the embroidery and turned to look Morgana over, her eyes skimming from crown to floor and back again. “Yes, I heard that you took Camelot’s throne.”

“Twice.”

“Temporarily.” Vivian’s words were crisp, with a touch of acid to them. Morgana bit her tongue in anger at the tart words, but Olaf was not looking at her any more; he was looking, adoringly, in wonder and terror, towards Vivian. “That dress is an old one of mine. It doesn’t suit you.”

It did not indeed, but Morgana had learnt upon pressing for her old clothes that they had been burnt. If things turned out well, Olaf said, he would reward her enough that she could afford her own dresses; for now, she wore Vivian’s and put up with their being tight in the bodice and a little short in the skirt. Being placed in faint pastels and delicate embroidery had not done much to improve Morgana’s mood either, the leftovers of Vivian’s aesthetic preferences.

“I’m sure I’ll take that into account when choosing my clothes in the future,” she settled for. Vivian looked at her for a moment longer, then turned back to the window once again, lifting up her embroidery to admire it. Her hair was in loose waves over her shoulders – not just loose, Morgana would have said – but barely cared for. It did not much impair her appearance, but was so unlike Vivian that it was uncomfortable.

They lapsed into silence again, Morgana uncertain what to say or even whether she wanted to speak further at all, and Olaf drew and released a deep, silent breath. He put his hand on Morgana’s upper arm, but more gently than he had reached out to lead her before, and gently guided her out of the room once again. The door closed behind them, was locked, and Olaf placed the key into his pocket once again.

“That is the most that I have heard her talk in over a month,” he said. His voice sounded breathy, as if it was on the verge of cracking, and he did not seem to be able to drag his eyes away from the door. They glistened slightly. Morgana watched him with pursed lips and wary gaze, waiting for the next words that he might speak. Again, a hitch of breath, and then he turned back to her fully stern once again. “You knew Vivian when she was young. You know that this is not her.”

“It has been nigh four years since I saw her last,” Morgana replied. “And she surprised me then.”

“Her obsession with Prince Arthur.” Olaf’s eyes flashed dangerously, and not that many years ago Morgana would have shied away from him. “Too sudden, even for a young girl, with a young girl’s whims. Do you agree that it is sorcery?”

She could not help the sneer that bought a curl to her lip, the disdain that poured from her words. “Do you, like Uther, blame magic for anything that may go wrong in your Kingdom?”

“If it did good for the Kingdom, I would grant it recognition for that also,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest.

“Magic’s good deeds are hidden,” said Morgana. She felt her legs becoming weaker even as her anger burned, and she placed one hand against the wall to support herself. “All that you ever see is the ill that it brings.”

“And you have done such good for Camelot.” The words were bitter, accusatory, and in a flash she felt what she had done all over again: her moves against Arthur, against Uther, for her throne. Her throne. She thought of the druids massacred, of innocent blood spilt. “Your two reigns saw death and anarchy.”

“Uther’s reign saw more death than either of mine,” she said with narrowed eyes. “And less deserved ones.”

“In a century your reasons will be no more than his,” said Olaf, sternly, and the way that he sounded like a father made her angrier still. “Consider this your chance to have magic do good, and be recognised.” He gathered his cloak around him, and turned to leave. “The guards will return you to your chambers.”

The white bands around her wrists felt like manacles. When the weakness passed, she followed him down the stairs, and away from Vivian’s chamber-cell.  
   
Little of her learning had been from books. Morgause had taught her in words, and in gestures of their hands, and in items passed from palm to palm and carrying the shared warmth of their touch. She had repeated words over and over until they felt familiar and welcome on her tongue, made potions that went wrong time after time and became blackened and spoilt before her eyes until she could correct them, drew a blade over her hands to pull forth the magic that was in her very blood.

She had not learnt magic from books.

Olaf had spoken truly when he had said that tomes of magic were still kept within the library of Powys, and now it seemed that every one of them in the Kingdom had been moved to the room in which Morgana found herself staying. No few of them were too large for her to move alone, and required that she have the guard watching her give his assistance. The writing in them was often cramped and contained many words that she did not recognise at first, until she said them aloud and could finally draw something close from her memory. It did not help that many of the spellings were so archaic that they might have come from the time before Albion was even unified.

The suddenness of Vivian’s ardour, and of Arthur’s for that matter, suggested that Olaf was right, and that magic was to blame. Spells that could cause love, obsession, desire… she had expected them to be rare. To meddle with the heart was not something that she expected to be easy to do even with magic. But then again, she had seen Uther in the grasps of a troll by the work of magic, and now it was laid before her again.

As far as she could tell, they numbered in the hundreds. At the beginning, she had made notes on each one as she found them, then begun to use strips of ribbon as bookmarks, and finally had found herself growling faintly with frustration at each new one that appeared. It seemed, as well, that each one was barely different from the last, and yet each was terribly different to undo, if indeed they could be undone at all.

She doubted, however, that Olaf would accept that for an answer. At the end of the third day of searching through book after book, Morgana had one of the chairs moved to where she could look out over the rolling land to the north. It had been raining, lightly but almost constantly, for the last two days, and the land was faintly grey but mostly green as far as she could see, not flat but so much of it made up of plateaued hilltops that she could see the scattered farming hamlets that spread out across the top of them, and not the larger villages that rested in the valleys below.

It was peaceful here, despite her hours spent with the great piles of books. For the first time in many months she did not have to sleep with a dagger beneath her pillow, although half of the reason for that was probably that she was still not much sleeping at all. They had refused to return her bracelet to her, and her wrist felt bare without it. But still, she had found herself without fear for her life, and without someone whispering hatred in her ear – Morgause, Cenred, Agravaine – her dreams were, if ongoing, less tied up with death and fire. Easier to forgive her magic for.

She wondered if she could draw out her ‘research’ into what might ail Vivian, perhaps even find somewhere in these books a way to undo the enchantment that Olaf had bought with which to bind her wrists. She had not even done magic since the day that it had failed her in the halls of Camelot, and there was a whisper in her mind – dark, smug, sly – that she could not be sure that it would still answer in the way that it once had. Another enchantment to be undone – but to undo magic without magic’s use? Preposterous.

Morgana picked up one of the smaller tomes, one more of healing, with herbs and poultices amid the incantations. She did not know why Olaf had sent it to her; perhaps he had simply despaired and sent her every book to do with healing as well. A slip of ribbon marked the page for heartsease, and she turned to it. For all she knew, the answer could be that simple.

It was not, she told herself, that she was much worried for Vivian, or even particularly liked the girl. One act of disenchantment in exchange for freedom, however, was not to be passed over, and in the meantime she knew that she was too weak to fight for her freedom, her injuries not yet fully healed.

From the window, the guard watched her with wary eyes. He had probably been told that she was a witch, a sorceress; the word ‘priestess’ would not have been used for him. Yet for anyone other than Uther, than Arthur, than Gaius, than Merlin and Guinevere their close chattel, she offered healing, solace, guidance. She was first and foremost a priestess, after all. Now, though, it felt like everything that had once marked her had been taken away; in borrowed clothes and braided hair, surrounded by heavy books, she turned her attention back to her task.


	3. Chapter 3

There were many books, it transpired, and it seemed that each book contained many spells to snare the heart. More worrying, however, was how powerful many of them seemed to be. Part of her, a small dark angry part, whispered how easy it would be to make the world love her and want her to rule; an even smaller part added that it would be just as easy to make Arthur love her enough to hand her the throne. But the thought of the falsehood disgusted her, reminded her too much of Uther’s lies and omissions, and she put it aside with the book that she had at the time been holding.

She had felt her strength recovering, day by day, enough that she could walk easily and move around the room under her own volition, as well as – to her unending relief – feed herself without assistance. Though there was only one guard watching her each day, it seemed at least to her eye that Olaf was sending increasingly competent and well-armed ones. They kept theirs hand by their swords at all times, as if they thought she was going to snatch it away from them. The bands on her wrists were immovable, by muttered words of magic or sharp tugs, or even once a knife slipped beneath the fabric. Inviolable, it seemed, at least for now. They must have been made by a strong magic-user indeed, long ago or far away or both.

Every other day, at nightfall, Olaf came to her to ask what she had found. A hundred possibilities and no certainties, she had taken to replying, and though he would probe a little with his words he did not know enough of magic to press too far. Night was falling again as he entered, without prior announcement or pause.

His crown was upon his brow; he must have come directly from the council chambers. Removing his gloves, he threw them down upon the desk at which she worked and took the seat opposite her, looking at her intently. She had taken to marking the depth of the shadows beneath his eyes, knowing that when they were deeper and he was wearier he would have less patience for her. Today they looked barely paler than bruises; he would want explanations, but brief ones.

“Have you any news other than that which you give me each time?” he asked, barely giving her time to draw breath. The fingers of her right hand twitched angrily – as Queen of Camelot she had been his equal, and rightly so when Arthur was younger than she – but she refrained from comment before she could be sure that it would be civil.

She turned some of the parchment she had written on towards him; he gave it a glance, but nothing more. “I am working on finding order among the chaos. The spells which could be to blame seem to fall into groups, similar in both their casting and their undoing. It should allow me to determine into which group Vivian’s enchantment falls.”

“You believe so?”

“Whatever it was, it was cast swiftly, and by someone of no great magical power. If Arthur was enchanted with the same spell, which seems only likely, then it is clearly possible to break it. That removes many possibilities.”

Olaf nodded slowly, but his eyes were not focused on the parchment towards which he gazed. His eyes did not even flicker when she drew the sheets back towards herself again, settling them into a neat pile on her right side. A moment passed in which Morgana found herself watching him intently, waiting for a word or action which seemed almost prepared, but then his shoulders rose and he looked up, pulling himself together in one stern movement.

Finally he met her gaze, flicking one hand towards the papers that surrounded her as if in contempt. “I wish for you to talk to Vivian again. She may not allow you to examine her, but doubtless one with your skills will be able to glean information in any case.”

“Talk to Vivian?” Morgana raised her eyebrows, regarding Olaf as if he had suggested she ask the castle wall for guidance. “Surely you have already asked her if she knows anything.”

“Of course I have,” he said. Anger flashed in his eyes and he clenched his fists, but she did not waver. She had seen worse tempers than Olaf could summon. “My physicians have asked her. Her maids and servants have asked her. She cares not, knows not, does not even seem to understand that she is under a spell. Talking of Arthur meets with tears or dizzy daydreams. Her words to you were the most normal that I have seen her speak in many a month, and I would–”

He got no further as a messenger appeared at the door, bedraggled and wearing the clothes of a foot soldier, pale despite the sweat that ran down him in rivulets. “Your Majesty,” he gasped, not even waiting for acknowledgement. “There has been another attack–”

“Silence!” Olaf barked, rising to his feet with a screech of wood on stone. The messenger was leaning against the doorway, and only now did the two guards who had presumably been flanking him manage to catch up and appear in the doorway. “This is not a matter for an audience.”

Morgana treated him to her most withering stare, but sadly he did not turn around to have the opportunity to appreciate it.

“There are no bandits in the land that could be of enough import to come bursting in so. Go to the council chambers, and count yourself lucky if I greet you there.”

Though the messenger still panted for breath, his face was ashen, and he shook enough for it to be visible across the room and by firelight. “Your Majesty, it was no bandit.” He clutched at his chest with his other hand, slumping more against the doorframe. “There is a beast abroad on the hills.”

The words were strained, and barely had he finished them before he collapsed to the floor, dropping as if the bones had vanished from his body. Morgana felt her heart jump into her throat, and there was a beat’s pause before the two guards managed to react and dropped to assist him, rolling him over onto his side. One of them held a hand over the messenger’s mouth for a moment, then looked to Olaf. “He’s breathing.”

“Get him to the physician,” Olaf replied. He had not moved from where he stood, though his posture had stiffened and tension rolled off him. He started towards the doorway as the two guards moved around, trying to work out how best to carry the unconscious man between them. Just before he reached them, he stopped and turned, raising a warning hand to point towards Morgana. “And you saw none of this. It does not concern you.”

Until he spoke the words, she had not even thought of how it might.

 

 

 

She should not have been surprised, the next morning, when a second guard joined the first after her breakfast and announced that she was to talk to the Lady Vivian that day. Her sharp question of whether the Lady Vivian knew of this went unanswered, but they allowed her at least to gather some parchment, a quill and inkstone before they escorted her through the castle.

This time she knew where she was going, and did not follow behind like some meek servant but walked abreast with the guards. When they came to doorways, they even had to step back. Such a small thing should not have brought a smirk back to her lips, but she could not much help it; there had been few victories, however small, to be had in recent weeks.

Even the tower stairs did not trouble her, though she did not presume to remove the key from the wall and unlock the door herself. Were she now to fight the guards, she thought idly, she might even best one of them, and with his sword hold off another. The weakness of her right side, however, did plenty to make a fight seem undesirable, and she nodded acknowledgement to the guard who opened the door and stepped aside to allow her entrance.

The room had changed. Not greatly, and not obviously, but after a moment Morgana realised that the flowers in the vases around the room were wilted, and the fire had burnt itself almost completely out. It left the room clammy and unpleasant, and she turned to the guards imperiously.

“Stoke up the fire. But crack open one of the windows, let in some air. Lady Vivian cannot be comfortable in here.”

In truth, she could already feel the atmosphere of the room giving her a headache, and had no desire to let it manage to do so. The men reluctantly moved to do as she said, and Morgana turned back to the bed, and to Vivian.

Vivian looked paler than she had before, and though her hair had clearly been curled recently it hung limp and almost lifeless over her shoulders. The pretty white nightgown she was wearing was starting to look worn around the edges, and there was a hole in one sleeve, but Vivian did not seem to notice as she cradled a wilted white flower in her lap, plucking the petals one by one and shredding them between her nails.

“No embroidering today then, Vivian?” said Morgana, and though she could hardly be expected to manage brightness in her words she was herself surprised at how brittle they sounded.

Vivian looked up, glanced once from Morgana’s head to her feet and back again, and turned back to the unfortunate flower. “No,” she replied. “Father says he won’t allow me to send it to Arthur, so there’s no point.”

She did not say how long ago the order had been given, and Morgana did not question it. It had been almost a month since she had seen Vivian last, and at the very least the Princess was skilled in embroidery. How that would befit a Queen, Morgana did not know, but she supposed there was probably some roundabout logic to it. She caught the eye of one of the guards and nodded to a chair by the wall; he moved it to Vivian’s bedside with only a moment’s hesitation and a faint distrustful look. Well, at least it was an improvement.

Morgana settled into the seat, placing the items she had carried on Vivian’s bedside table. Vivian seemed to have finished destroying the flower, and was now picking up shreds of the petals and letting them fall back into her lap. Uninterrupted, Morgana looked over her ‘patient’, but found no signs of glamour or artefacts. Vivian was not wearing any jewellery, and unless she had been wearing the nightdress beneath her gown for these past years would not have been wearing an enchantment on her skin.

“Did Arthur ever give you anything?” she said, thinking of the charms of which she had read. “To remember him by?”

Vivian gave a doleful little whimper that set Morgana’s teeth on edge. “No, alas, I have nothing by which to remember my love.” She wrapped her arms around herself, closing her eyes. “Nothing save for this nightgown, which I wore when we declared our love for each other.”

“No… lock of hair? No trinkets?”

At these words, Vivian burst into sobs – controlled, ladylike ones of course, directed into the sleeve of her nightgown. Morgana sighed and allowed her to sniffle delicately, waiting rather than interrupting, and sure enough the moment passed soon enough, and Vivian dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips though there were no signs of tears there.

“When you and I were children, about the only thing that we could agree on was how annoying Arthur was,” said Morgana, crossing her knees and smoothing down her gown over them. “Save for that hairpin you once tried to take from me.”

“It would have suited me better,” Vivian replied, the words so swift that they must have been tossed out without a thought. She twisted the hem of her nightgown between her fingers and pouted slightly. “But it doesn’t matter. I have seen the true Arthur, and we are in love, and one day we will be reunited.”

Morgana had heard from Olaf that Camelot now had a Queen enthroned alongside its King. She had pretended not to be as furiously angry as she felt, and had nodded acknowledgement before changing the topic at hand, and only later had vented her fury in screams into her pillow. She had dared not break those things which did not belong to her, and had no magic with which to release the pent-up energy of her rage.

A pity. She and Gwen had been friends once, more so than one might expect from a lady and her maidservant. Had fate permitted it, Morgana would have put Gwen upon her council, made her Queen’s advisor. But like a flower, she had turned towards Arthur’s golden sun, and Morgana was left alone.

The thoughts had overwhelmed her when Vivian suddenly spun, wide-eyed, and half-crawled, half-threw herself across the bed towards Morgana. Morgana made to rise, but Vivian clasped their hands together and whispered fiercely: “You should help me! That way Arthur and I can rule Powys, and you could have Camelot again! And he’ll have a Kingdom, so he won’t want to take yours back!”

For a moment, it was tempting. So tempting. But so outrageous, so patently ridiculous, were the words that Morgana almost laughed. “That isn’t how the world works, Vivian,” she said instead. “Arthur would never leave Camelot.”

Vivian released Morgana’s hands, sitting back on her heels and pouting once again. Frankly, Morgana would not have been surprised were Vivian to offer to give up Powys instead, and she continued before the opportunity to do so could arise. It would not do to even let the idea get into Vivian’s head, not to mention how angry Olaf would become.

“Nor Guinevere. You know that he is wed, surely?”

She could not have anticipated the reaction that she received. Vivian looked at her for a long moment, lips parted and eyes wide in shock, then anger blazed in her eyes and she screamed, balling her hands into fists and looking up at the ceiling. In her pause for breath she turned back to Morgana and, with a second scream, made as if to spring upon her. Morgana jumped to her feet; one of the guards lunged between them and grabbed hold of the struggling Vivian, whilst the other took hold of Morgana’s arm and dragged her from the room.

“No!” Vivian was crying by then, finally having found words rather than just noise. “No! Arthur is mine! I am his! We will be together! You’re lying, you’re lying, you’re–”

Anything further became muffled as the door was closed, then broke off into a chilling wail that crept from the nape of Morgana’s neck all the way down her spine. She realised that she was shaking and clinging to the arm of the guard that stood by her, and turned her face away from the door and the sobs – real sobs this time, guttural and choked – that emanated from beyond it. A moment or two later, the second guard emerged, clutching the parchment and other items that Morgana had carried in, his face flushed and eyes dark.

He pushed them into her hands, then turned to lock the door behind them, without saying a word. He did not need to. As soon as she trusted herself not to stumble, Morgana turned to go down the steps of the tower once again, leaving behind her the room but not the echoes of the desperate tears within it.  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ **Interlude** _

  
_“Faran, please, don’t go.”_

_“Please, mother…” he turned and pried her fingers off his arm, but with a kindly smile. “There are plenty of us. Tom’s going, and Merton, and Earle, and–”_

_“It’s not them I’m worrying for,” she said fiercely “Their mothers can do that. I’m here to worry about you, Faran.”_

_She reached up to brush his cheek with one hand, and for a moment he felt his resolve falter. He was only sixteen, even if he was the eldest and had been working like an adult since his father had died. But all of the men of the village were turning out to search the moors that night, and he did not want to be the only one to hide in his mother’s apron as if he was a child again._

_“There’s two women gone missing now,” he said in reply. Their voices were both hushed, Faran’s brother and sisters asleep just in the back room. “Arianrod was only thirteen. We have to try and find them, mother,” he said._

_“Roe did not **disappear** ,” Edlynn replied. She did not need to remind him what they had found that morning. He had been recognised by the rich red of his hair, and that alone. “And I couldn’t…”_

_For a moment he was a child again as he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. When Rheda had gone missing it was one thing: an accident, perhaps, a fall that left her waiting to be found, for all the strange sounds on the moors. But then there had been that second foggy, frosty night, and the howls on the hills again, and Arianrod had disappeared with screams from barely beyond her own yard. Her brother had only been searching for her when he, too, had vanished… until the sun rose once again._

_Faran planted a quick kiss to his mother’s brow. “We’ll not be too long. I’m going with the group that are walking the paths out to the farms and back, that’s all. Stay inside tonight, and keep the candles burning.”_

_Trembling, she nodded as he unwrapped his arms from her and picked up his cloak to sling across his shoulders. The nights were fast becoming cold, and even the sheep in the shelter adjoining the house did not do much to bring it warmth. They were quieter than usual as well, their eyes always bright and staring in the candlelight._

_“I’ll be back before this candle burns down, okay?” He picked up the short candle on the sill for a moment for her inspection, then set it back down again. There was not much of the white tallow left, just enough for a few hours. Although he wanted to embrace her a second time, he restrained himself, laying his hand on her shoulder. He wasn’t quite sure when he had grown taller than she. “I love you, mother. Remember that.”_

_She was still shaking slightly as she nodded, but now there was a pride in her eyes and a slight smile on her lips as she patted his hand and watched him go. The door banged shut behind him in the wind, and the candles flickered for a moment, but if Edlynn listened closely she could hear the men in the centre of the village, calling everyone together for the search._

_The sound of the wind around the house was like howling coming from the very sky. Shivering, Edlynn turned to tend to the embers of the fire, and wait for the candles to burn down._


	4. Chapter 4

“What have you done to my daughter?”  
  
The door was flung open as Olaf entered, and Morgana looked up from her work. The King crossed to tower over her, and even when she stood he merely stepped closer, grabbing her by the wrist and squeezing so tightly that she thought her bones ground together. Crying out, Morgana went to wrench her arm away, but she was backed up against the table and did not have the room to pull away from him.  
  
“My daughter!” Olaf barked again. “What have you done to her?”  
  
“I did nothing more than tell her the truth,” replied Morgana. She felt her anger snap like fire in her chest, then the bonds on her wrists began to tighten like ropes. Shaking it aside, she turned back to him again. “Did you plan to keep it from her forever that Arthur was wed?”  
  
“You had no right to tell her.” There was anger in his face, but from this close she could see as well the redness of his eyes, the wild look in them. It had been most of a day since she had left Vivian’s chambers, and night had already fallen; Morgana had been on the verge of putting out the candle and allowing herself to sleep, shaken though she was. “You had no right to, to…”  
  
She raised her chin and looked at him defiantly. Would he strike her? It would certainly not be unthinkable; she would do the same and worse to someone who angered her. She had done so. But she was a woman, and barely any time from being an invalid, and perhaps Olaf was just a more courteous ruler. He released her hand, wheeled away from her to pace a few steps, then turned back to point a hand at her. Its shaking was almost suppressed.  
  
“You do not even know what you have done to her. The magic in her mind, it…” He trailed off, shaking his head, and clenched his hand into a fist as he drew it back into his chest. “There is nothing but Arthur left there.”  
  
His voice was hollow, pained, and Morgana suddenly did not want to respond that she had hardly known Vivian’s mind to contain much even before Arthur became its focus. She simply rubbed her wrist, and waited for him to continue.  
  
“You will fix her.” It was an order, but a trembling one; she knew that voice. He did not dare make it any less than an order because to do so would question the fact that she could, but he still feared that it might not come to pass. She knew that, felt it in her bones even before she met his eyes and read the same desperation there. His posture was all anger, all fighting, but his eyes were desolate. “You will give me back my Vivian.”  
  
Her tongue was tied in her throat. Olaf glared at her for a moment longer, then turned and walked out of the room as suddenly as he had burst into it, leaving the guards standing in the doorway and uncertain of what they should do. Morgana gripped the arm of the chair as she lowered herself back into it, her eyes fixed on a point on the floor. She had not seen the same passion in Uther’s eyes save for when he was angry with her; she had never seen it in Gorlois, though his nature was not that fiery same. Gorlois’s loyalty had been to the crown of Camelot since before Morgana’s birth, and Uther’s had been… to none at all, it had seemed to her. Despite herself, Morgana felt tears in her eyes, blurring her vision, and heard more than saw the doors to the room closed. Silence returned to her, and hastily she put out the candle and retired to bed.  
  
That night her dreams grew bad again, but the guards must have been warned, for this time no-one came when she screamed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Part of her had wanted the morning to come quickly in the hope that it would banish her nightmares. The rest of her was all too aware that she still wouldn’t have slept, and when one of the maids entered her room the next morning with breakfast it was all that Morgana could do to stumble out of bed and give some assistance with dressing herself rather than being treated like a doll. She was too tired to argue over, but not too tired to cringe at, the floral lavender dress into which she was laced so tightly that she could barely breathe, and could barely manage to drink the water that was put out for her. The mere thought of food turned her stomach, and she waved it away with a muttered apology when the maid looked irritated.  
  
Sometimes there was only so much screaming you could take.  
  
As with every day, she sat down at the desk and looked at the books and parchment and scrolls before her, but the weight in her head and the chaos of it all was just too much and she rose to her feet once again. The spells had been written as if their results were self-explanatory; she had no doubt that they had been, at least to the one that had done the casting. But there had been many at the treaty table of Camelot in the days in which the original scenes had unfolded, and for each King there had been a score, two score, who even knew how many servants. Any one of whom could have had magic, and been bold enough to use it.  
  
Unable to take sitting in her room for any longer, Morgana made some hasty notes on a torn slip of parchment, blew on the ink for it to dry, and then folded it to tuck into her bodice. The guard at her window was watching closely even before she rose to her feet and approached him. “I need to go to the kitchens. I wish to attempt the first healing of the Lady Vivian.”  
  
It should not have surprised her that she was not simply allowed to do as she pleased; she supposed that it really would have been rather easy to poison Vivian under the pretence of healing her. Instead, she was escorted to Olaf and, when commanded to explain what she planned, took a dark pleasure in doing so in convoluted, specifically magic terms.  
  
Eventually, Olaf slammed his hand onto the table and snapped: “Silence!” Turning to one of his messengers, he added in a more sedate tone: “Fetch Aeslyn. She will understand this.”  
  
The messenger bowed and left, and Morgana was left in terse silence, her eyes fixed on Olaf’s and finding nothing in the gaze with which he refused to meet hers. He looked distrustfully at the parchment which Morgana had presented to him, then raised his head at footsteps in the corridor.  
  
“Your Majesty,” said a cold voice. Morgana’s curiosity itched, and she looked over her shoulder to look at the woman speaking, presumably Aeslyn, Olaf’s physician. She had long grey hair in a complex braid that wrapped all around her head, and wore long robes in a rich green, cinched at the waist with a broad leather belt from which hung various pouches. The scent of herbs surrounded her, but there was something sharp that undercut it, and which set Morgana’s teeth on edge. “You summoned me.”  
  
Olaf waved dismissively to Morgana; she clenched her fists even more tightly. “I need you to assure me that what the Lady Morgana wishes to do will not in any way be dangerous to my daughter.”  
  
“I’m not sure that I can speak for the Lady Morgana’s wishes,” replied Aeslyn, and the eyes that met Morgana’s were a curious golden-brown, but nowhere near so warm as they should have been at such a hue.  
  
“Well, luckily I can do so for myself instead,” said Morgana. “I believe that I have a course of action which may aid the Lady Vivian. A remedy. I requested first that the King allow me to bolster its strength with magic, but that has been denied, so as a result it will be mostly based on herbs.”  
  
Aerlys’s eyes flickered in what must have been a glance to Olaf. Morgana did not turn to see his actions, but saw the response in the slight slackening of the physician’s shoulders, the un-pursing of her lips. “What are the materials which you intend to use?”  
  
“Heartsease, the wild pansy,” Morgana said briskly. “Apple, if I can find it, preferably wild again. And holly wood for burning.”  
  
“The wood only?”  
  
She nodded.  
  
“Those ingredients are safe, Your Majesty,” said Aeslyn, turning back towards Olaf. With a tilt of her chin and feeling something that might have been a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, Morgana turned to him as well. His brows were pulled together, gaze dangerously dark, but finally he nodded.  
  
“Very well. Aeslyn, you will accompany the Lady Morgana and Sabert. The Lady has assured me that such items should be easy enough to find close to the town, so it should not take too long.”  
  
It had not been so long that Morgana had forgotten how to be gracious. She rose to her feet and inclined her head to Olaf, who looked surprised by the action. “My thanks, Your Majesty.”  
  
“Have one of the maids bring you what you need to leave the castle,” Olaf added, and she wasn’t sure whether she imagined his voice becoming slightly gruff as he did so. “And there will be a horse found for you. I recall that you are a competent rider. Sabert, Aeslyn... my Lady.” He rose in turn, nodded to each of them, and left.  
  
She had not realised that it would feel so strange to be treated politely once again.  
  
  
  
  
Morgana could have sworn that it was the first time she had seen Powys not covered in a blanket of more or less continuous rain. The sun broke through the clouds in thin shafts, touching the open fields or the woods with faint light here and there, but not doing much to counter the cutting gusts of wind that made their way over the hilltops. The boots which had been found for Morgana were a little too big, but at least that meant there was room for another layer of socks beneath; the cloak fitted her well and left her shivering whenever the wind managed to slip beneath it.  
  
The holly was the easiest to find, shining green leaves and bright red berries among the fast-thinning foliage as the year cooled. Apparently the frosts had come on suddenly; Morgana would have sworn that Powys had never been anything but cold in all the times that she had seen it. The others were more difficult; only in the sheltered lee of a hill did they manage to find wild apples, overripe and needing hardly more than a touch of Sabet’s hands to fall, and the wild pansies had long since ceased their flowering and had to be sought out by leaves alone.  
  
By the time that they had managed to find all of the things that Morgana had specified – the shortest list she could have thought of, for that matter – it was beginning to rain once again, and Aeslyn was refusing to speak a word as they returned to the horses, drew their hoods low over their heads, and made their way back to the city. It felt to Morgana as if every step went straight up her spine, and by the time they returned all she wanted to do was return to her bed and wait for her muscles to stop screaming.  
  
Unfortunately, no such option was granted to her, and she stumbled from the back of the horse which she had been given, her ankle twisting beneath her on the cobbles of the courtyard. The nearest stable-hand, holding the very reins of her horse, looked round but did nothing to aid her, and Morgana simply drew herself up with as much as dignity as she could muster and returned to the castle.  
  
They had left by the servants’ exits, and were to return the by same route for all that it rankled. Morgana waited within the shelter of the doorway until Aeslyn approached, mud having soaked through the bottom half a foot of her cloak and a scowl quite set upon her face. “Where do you need to set the fire?” she asked.  
  
She must have known more of magic than she had admitted, Morgana could not help but note, in the word _need_ when speaking of the fire. In truth, for this simple a spell there was no such demand, but she did not much fancy attempting to create a large enough fire in the fireplace, for example, of her room.  
  
“One of the cellars would be sufficient. Or even the dungeons, if necessary. Somewhere below the ground is best for this.”  
  
Morgana watched carefully for Aeslyn’s reaction; one who was well-versed in magic would know that it was utterly unnecessary to be below ground, but Aeslyn merely nodded. “The King has said that he wishes to be present. I will send him notice of where we are to be found. Come, we will find a place now.”  
  
Morgana’s boots had previously belonged to another, and had been enough worn that one of them had developed a small hole in them. Small, because she had not seen it when looking over the boots before leaving the castle earlier, but present nonetheless because the front half of her right foot was uncomfortably wet as Aeslyn led them to the kitchens, spoke briefly to one of the cooks only to be told that none of the cellars were currently empty, and instead continued through to the dungeons, deeper still underground than the dungeons, dark and cold but mercifully dry.  
  
They were not much different than those of Camelot, Morgana noted darkly as Aeslyn procured the keys for the cells and sent one of the guards to inform Olaf of where they were. The dungeons were lit by torches, no windows to let in what light might be found in the world, and the cells were dry and scattered with clean rushes.  
  
“These need clearing,” said Morgana, indicating the rushes with a sweep of her arm. “I have no desire to set the whole of Olaf’s dungeons alight.”  
  
An edge of dark humour found her words, and she had to shallow back the mad urge to laugh at the image, at the fury which would doubtless grip Olaf. His ambivalence would doubtless give way to the desire to kill her; an ignoble end after such a tumultuous few years. As it was, she allowed herself a cold smile, and a reverie that was interrupted as Aeslyn appeared before her, holding out a broom.  
  
“Here, then.”  
  
Morgana looked the physician up and down, not sure whether to laugh again or to give a sneer of disdain. She had the suspicion, as she met Aeslyn’s cool grey eyes, that her resulting expression was more discomforted than anything else. “Well, I am sure that you do not intend for me to sweep the dungeon floors of the King who has me captive.”  
  
“If you wish them swept, then that is exactly what you are going to do,” replied Aeslyn, unmoved by the outrage which Morgana now begin to feel washing over her. The water that had seeped into her shoes, the second-hand gowns and clothes that did not fit her, the bracelet kept from her to leave her waking night after night sweating or screaming... those were part of her captivity. Those, she had come to accept.  
  
But this, she would not bear. “I am no servant of Olaf’s,” replied Morgana, throat suddenly tight and voice hot and dangerous. She felt the bonds around her wrists begin to tighten as the magic in her breast curled and grew hot, even as her hands curled to fists at her sides, her ragged nails against her palm rather than the wood of the broom somehow welcome now.  
  
Aeslyn neither lowered the broom nor removed that terrible half-there smirk from her face. Anger boiled, and Morgana’s magic fought desperately to escape from her, but the bonds around her wrists became so tight that she could almost feel blood pooling in her hands, bones forced against each other.  
  
“Lady Morgana.” Olaf’s voice cut across them, and Morgana turned, releasing both her breath and the magic that had been building, as he entered the dungeons also. He was wearing a cloak and heavy gloves, but not his crown, and she might at another time have had more thoughts to spare on the matter. “Consider it part of your ritual.”  
  
“Had I my magic,” she said, voice cooler now, “I would be able to prepare things far more quickly. We would all be able to linger for less time.”  
  
“Had you proved yourself trustworthy,” replied Olaf, “then I might allow you your magic. However, a lack of outright attacks does not mean that you are not hostile to me or to my daughter, and I do not wish to take that risk. By your words earlier, you do not need magic to create this remedy.” He gestured also to the broom in Aeslyn’s hand. “Consider it part of your ritual.”  
  
Morgana snatched the broom from Aeslyn’s hand. It was not that many years gone that she would not have known how to use one, at least effectively, and only in that forest shack that she had made her own had she found it necessary to learn the skills which she had previously left to servants. To cook, to clean; before that, she had known of the vague shapes of such actions, but on her own she had been forced to hone them.  
  
In brisk strokes, her back rod-straight in knowledge that she was watched by Olaf, Aeslyn and Sabet alike, she cleared most of the dungeon floor of rushes to reveal large, flat, square stones cut so well that barely a quarter inch of dirt lay packed between each of them. She set the broom aside, only restraining herself from throwing it to the floor for the sake of her own pride, and turned with head held high to the others. Aeslyn still wore her smirk; Olaf was watching with a flat glare that was far more bearable.  
  
“Sabet, the holly, if you would,” she said crisply, not waiting for any of them to think to give her more orders, and gestured for him to come over. They had filled a large sack with branches and dried leaves, and Morgana now knelt to coax the smallest pieces into a cone that would do for kindling. Without prompting, Sabet understood that she would need a flint and steel, and handed her both. She gave him a nod and set sparks to the kindling, then began adding piece by piece until she had something that passed for a fire and would sustain itself for long enough to her to rise to her feet once again.  
  
Olaf had crossed his arms across his chest, watching with the mixture of wariness and interest that she had seen in the eyes of more than one of the people who had visited her in the last years. People who were told by Uther that magic was evil, and yet by their parents and grandparents that it had once been as pervasive as the weather and no more intrinsically good or evil. Magic became much less frightening, she supposed, when it was seen building fires, building water, cutting up crab apples and mashing them to a paste with the butt of the knife. The wild pansy leaves followed, and Morgana let it bubble as she sat back, brushing her hair back from her sweating forehead with the back of her hand.  
  
She had not realised how long it had been since she had done anything like this, just sat with fire and herbs and the steel in her hand slowly warming towards the temperature of her skin. There was something clean about it, something that was not oily with ill intentions or sticky with hatred. Clean muslin over a bowl, let the mixture drip through to form a shining golden liquid; perhaps it was the simplicity that had Olaf captivated still, and had caused even Aeslyn to stop her frown and look with something more akin to curiosity.  
  
“This is more like my work than that which I would expect of a sorceress,” she said finally, folding her arms across her chest. Morgana was by then rising to her feet, brushing stray bits of leaf and twig from her skirt.  
  
“It can be strengthened with magic,” said Morgana, with a pointed look to Olaf. “This is all that I can do without it.”  
  
This time, at least, Olaf caught her gaze. She held it, trying not to let her gaze become too much of a challenge, and finally he motioned for her to come to the table by which he stood. She set down the bowl containing the straining remedy before him, the mash still warm, the remedy golden and glistening in the firelight.  
  
“I assure you that there is nothing I can think of that I _could_ do to this to make it into some poison. You have seen what goes into it. Allow me to give it my magic, and there is more hope to be found in it.”  
  
Still, Olaf stood with his lips pressed together and wariness in his eyes. The anger kept building in Morgana’s chest, and she would have expected the parallel heat of her magic were it not for the tightening bonds on her wrists instead. At least Uther had his reason, twisted and embittered though it was; Morgause knew the entire story of Arthur’s conception, of Ygraine’s death, and had told Morgana all about it as part of the knowledge of magic which she had to impart. It had explained a lot, enough and too much at once of what Uther had thought of his position, of the child he already had at that time.  
  
“No,” he said finally. “Try this as it is first. If it does not work, then perhaps I shall reconsider.”  
  
Her hands itched for something to throw, or to break, but there was nothing there. Instead, Morgana tilted her chin as haughtily as she could manage in the circumstances, and fixed him with a cool look. “Of course. Without knowing what spell was cast, we cannot be certain of what will cause it to abate.”  
  
They head each other’s gazes for a moment, then looked away at the same time; Morgana turned her eyes back to the remedy on the table. “Aeslyn,” she said, “I believe that you have a vial with you.”  
  
It was peculiar, as well, to not have everything that she needed automatically about her person or within her reach – and yet it felt very much like being Uther’s ward, waited on and served. Aeslyn handed her the vial, and Morgana used it to scoop up some of the seeping, still-warm liquid, faintly gold through the glass as she placed the cork firmly into place. The oil seeped down over her fingers, but she wiped them on the skirts of the dress which she was wearing as it was, after all, not hers.  
  
“Well, then.” Wrapping her hand tightly around it, she looked to Olaf. He was apparently examining the remains of the fire, embers still glowing, the smell of burnt holly still haunting in the air. “Do you wish me to try this now, or wait for some reason?”  
  
“Now,” said Olaf gruffly. “This matter has tarried for more than long enough.”


	5. Chapter 5

Morgana had fully expected that being presented to Vivian would end poorly, but she could not quite have anticipated the reaction that she received. She had never known Vivian to be violent – scathing words were, after all, usually enough to deter any boy who took too much interest to her, and if they were not then a hint dropped to her father would be the end of the matter.  
  
So it was rather a surprise when a knife arced down almost through her shoulder, actually cutting the fabric and feeling like a cold rush over her skin. Morgana cried out, more from shock than fear after so many years spent with blades in her hands, and grabbed Vivian’s wrist before she could attempt a second swipe. The knife glittered silver; Vivian’s eyes glittered darkly as she lunged towards Morgana with an animal growl, her anger enough that even her slighter form forced Morgana to stumble backwards.  
  
“You!” She half-snarled, half-squealed, and the tone of her voice suggested that she could not think of an insult foul enough for what she thought of Morgana. Another lunge with her arm, throwing her weight forwards, sent them both tumbling to the floor in an ungainly heap. From the corner of her eye Morgana saw guards fighting their way into the room, Olaf behind them, but she was rather more worried with Vivian, now straddling her with murder in her eyes and a manic grin twisting her face. The knife began to move downwards, Vivian’s hands moving with greater strength this time, and Morgana reached up to wrap both hands around the princess’s wrist instead.  
  
It happened in a flash. There was a flurry of hands in front of her eyes, and then Vivian was holding the knife left-handed, triumphant, thrusting it down towards Morgana’s face.  
  
She gave an indignant scream as she was hauled away by the two guards, one of them taking each arm and lifting her bodily off Morgana. Vivian did not miss the opportunity to lash out with her foot, landing first one and then a second kick on Morgana’s side before she was pulled fully away. Morgana doubled over, hissing with pain through gritted teeth as she curled over on the floor, vial falling from her hands with a clatter as she grabbed at her side. It felt damp, sticky.  
  
No second guesses needed as to what was causing that. Morgana dragged herself to her front, then to her knees, still with one hand clamped over her side. Before she could reach for the dropped vial, however, Aeslyn stepped in front of her and, in one smooth movement, scooped it up and away.  
  
Another guard put one hand beneath Morgana’s arm and drew her upright, not too gently but not so roughly as she might have feared. Or, a voice in the back of her head whispered, once deserved. She watched with a grim satisfaction as the two guards pinned Vivian into a chair, as Aeslyn put the vial to the girl’s lips and pinched her nose shut to force it down her throat.  
  
The satisfaction faded when she saw the pain on Olaf’s face, the trembling of his jaw that he seemed unable to suppress. Morgana could only bear to look at his expression for a moment before turning her eyes away and to the floor.  
  
“You... bitch!” Whether it was a lower insult or a higher compliment to have actually earned a word, Morgana was not certain, but she could not help her surprise at hearing the word fall from Vivian’s lips. Aeslyn, however, did not so much as blink as she stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. The fierce glare rested for a moment longer on the physician, then Vivian turned to Morgana with hatred dripping from every word, every move. “And you... Pendragon scum, not worthy of being Arthur’s sister, you-”  
  
Morgana turned, blood seeping between her fingers, and swept from the room as best she could manage; Vivian broke off into a wordless scream as the target of her insults disappeared from her view. Her eyes felt hot, dry, and she did not turn round at the sound of footsteps behind her until a hand fell on her shoulder. Without thought, she curled her hand into a fist, spinning with it raised and a snarl curling her lips, but a hand clamped like iron around her arm and held it so still that she almost stumbled over her own momentum.  
  
Her eyes snapped up to meet Olaf’s; his expression was stony, no more yielding than the hand which gripped her arm. She glanced to her clenched fist, fingers smeared with her blood, and let them relax until Olaf dropped released her.  
  
“There was a chance that it could have worked.”  
  
“Not a large one, to judge by your tone,” he replied.  
  
She shrugged, the pain in her side and the memory of the knife flashing in front of her face rather too sharp for her to feel like talking civilly. “You leave me without magic and knowing full well that you will have me killed if I make the smallest error. That cure was the safest of things I could have done, and yes, I doubted it was at all likely to succeed. Do you blame me?”  
  
Olaf paused for a moment. “No,” he said quietly, and sighed.  
  
For a moment, Morgana waited to see if he would say something more, holding her side tightly. When he did not, however, his gaze fixed through the narrow arrow slit in the wall next to them, she spoke through gritted teeth. “I would appreciate it if someone would stitch up your daughter’s handiwork once again.”  
  
He called for one of the soldiers, who escorted her back down the stairs and waited with her until Aeslyn returned. Vivian’s fury rang in her ears still, as the pain still left from Camelot stabbed at her, and she could barely restrain the tears that pricked at the back of her eyes.  
  
  
  
  
Morgana supposed that she could count herself lucky that she was given the following day to recover, despite the bandages around her abdomen and her dreams having awoken her screaming more than once in the same night. The tear of her healing side was not half so bad as she had thought from the feel of blood, and had not needed stitching up a second time, but she had laughed bitterly when Aeslyn had advised that she be careful this time.  
  
Her dreams were not so easily addressed. Tearing flesh, screaming, fire, ropes biting into her wrists, a face so twisted that she could barely recognise it as such, a stabbing pain in her chest and then cold, numbing, death...  
  
After the second such dream, she gave up on sleep, wrapped herself in a blanket, and sat at the window to wait for the sun to rise. It was not new to her to be alone; she had been so almost all of the time since Morgause’s death. She had not found Agravaine at that time, before Uther’s death and Arthur’s crowning. Her magic had been too unpredictable to use much of the time, and so it had been with a spade and her bare hands that she had dug the grave for her sister, and it had been alone that she had wrapped Morgause in something resembling a shroud, that she might be buried in peace. Her fingers had bled, but she had buried the blood with her sister, and left the grave unmarked lest it might be found by Uther’s – or Arthur’s – men.  
  
She had fallen into sullen reminiscence by the time that the sun broke the horizon, between the patchy clouds that criss-crossed the sky like the lead in a window. The way she was sitting was not particularly comfortable, but the wall at her back had warmed enough to be bearable, and her muscles had stiffened such that moving would be difficult. It did not surprise her that she did not feel the will to move from her spot.  
  
A faint, disappointed groan escaped her lips as she heard the door open, and she did not turn to face it, keeping her eyes resolutely locked on the slowly-brightening outside world. The blunt, “Ah, so you are awake already,” from behind her told her that it was the same servant who had been caring for her – or overseeing her, depending on her feelings on the matter from day to day – from the beginning, and Morgana shifted against her aching limbs before she was removed from the seat against her will.  
  
“It would seem so,” she said dryly, managing to turn and put her feet on the floor. A shiver ran through her at the touch of cold stone, but she suppressed it, and rose to her feet with the blanket still around her shoulders. “Has Olaf declared some need for me today?”  
  
The woman set down a tray at Morgana’s bedside. Although she knew full well that Olaf served more elaborate breakfast to his more favoured guests, Morgana was content enough with the sweet porridge and occasional fruit and nuts which she was given. She had eaten far worse in the last two years or so. Returning to the bed, Morgana sat down and ate quickly, before it got cold or the servant decided to feed her instead. She watched with wary eyes as a dress was bought out, brushed down, underclothes laid over it ready for her to, she hoped, dress herself. She did not fancy being pulled around like some sort of tailor’s model; the woman had no sense of delicacy, it seemed.  
  
The dress was not one that she recognised, but it looked strangely familiar: sleeveless, dark red and trimmed in gold. She had worn dresses like that before, back in Camelot, and had never seen Vivian in anything like such a colour. Vivian liked pretty, pale colours; this dress was the colour of blood.  
  
And the colour of Camelot. Frowning, Morgana did not protest as she was pulled and pinched into the dress, her hair roughly brushed and twisted into the sort of curls that she had once worn it in. The only concession to the cold air was the cape draped over her shoulders, but suddenly, when she looked in the mirror, she saw Morgana Pendragon of Camelot once again.  
  
“There,” said the maidservant finally, standing back and giving a firm nod. Morgana frowned at her reflection, the privileged girl she had left behind, the _safe_ life she had left behind. A life where she had felt the occasional anger, the occasional sadness, but had been safe for so long that she had never known how deep those feelings could really cut. She almost did not hear the door open once again, and whirled round as footsteps announced a new person in the room. Instinctively she reached for her magic, only for the ties around her wrists to tighten sharply and remind her of their presence. It was probably a good thing, however, as Olaf appeared in the doorway, expression less stern than it had been on previous days.  
  
“Olaf,” she said, not caring enough to rethink using his name as he frowned again. She could not recall whether it was the first time that she had called him by name or not. “I get the feeling that you have something in particular planned for today.”  
  
“Your side is healed sufficiently,” he said, not bothering with a question.  
  
“Yes,” she replied anyway.  
  
“I want you to speak with Vivian again.”  
  
Morgana rolled her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. The movement tugged slightly at her side, but she ignored the pang of discomfort, choosing to fix her concentration as well as her gaze on Olaf. “ _Want_ , you may, but unfortunately I am in no mood to be attacked with a knife again.”  
  
“I spoke to her yesterday, for... some time.” His voice was pained, but he cleared his throat and held his bearing still. Morgana guessed that Vivian had not done much speaking back... screaming, perhaps, or sobbing. But not speaking. “Eventually she came to see that you should not be a target of her anger. She remembers you, Morgana. I, well.” For perhaps five seconds he fell completely silent, eyes slipping to the side rather than remaining focused on her, hand tightening on the hilt of the sword at his side. “There are not many people that she has known since she was a child, very few that she has known for years. I have reminded her that she has known you as long as she has known Arthur, and that for years she was rather closer to you than to him. She... seemed to actually want to talk to you.”  
  
Morgana gritted her teeth, but nodded. In this, at least, she could see some sense, even if she was still not convinced that Vivian was not plotting a slightly more long-winded form of attack. “Provided she doesn’t have any knives to hand.”  
  
Olaf turned away without a response, but Morgana supposed that she had not really wanted one. Taking a deep breath, she followed Olaf from the room, preparing herself to come face to face with Vivian once again.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Anger, she might have expected. It was, after all, the emotion that had dominated Vivian the last time they had met. Before that, Morgana supposed, Vivian had been in some sort of delusion, though whether it had lasted for the years before she did not really want to know. Now, though, when she entered the room, there was no response.  
  
Vivian lay on the bed, curled up on her side, with her eyes open but staring into nothingness. Nothingness, at least, as represented by the bare wall. She was wearing a dark robe, with wisps of white just showing at the collars and cuffs to tell of the nightgown still beneath. A chair had been set at her bedside, right in her line of sight, but Morgana hesitated just inside the room.  
  
“Go on,” said Olaf from behind her, voice subdued. “One of my men will be here.”  
  
She heard his footsteps withdraw, and then the door close behind her; a glance over her shoulder told that one of the guards was indeed there, though he too was looking at the far wall. Irritation rose in her like a wave: why did none of them dare look at the world? With a rustle of her skirts, she sat down in front of Vivian, flopping heavily into the chair and crossing her legs. Vivian did not stir.  
  
“You’ve decided not to kill me, then, I suppose,” she said.  
  
She waited for an answer, but none came.  
  
“Or maybe I’m just not worth the effort.”  
  
Vivian blinked a couple of times, a tear sliding from her eye, down to the bridge of her nose, then dripping to her bedclothes. Her eyes were red, lashes wet, gaze still just as vacant. Morgana gave a deep sigh, breathing in the stale air of the room, and settled into the chair in the most comfortable way that she could manage.  
  
“It seems a long time ago that we first met. I don’t suppose that either of us would recognise the other now, even now that I am dressed up in the colours of Camelot.” She plucked at her skirt, just for a moment. “You were six, if I recall, and I was eight. Arthur just in the middle. You complained about the journey, you complained about the mud on your shoes, and you complained about the fact that Arthur and I didn’t spend every moment talking to you.”  
  
Vivian sniffed.  
  
“You were more annoyed by me, though, than by Arthur. Neither of us cared for boys, after all.”  
  
“Things change,” said Vivian, so quietly that Morgana almost could not hear the words. Her eyes were still shining. “We grow up.”  
  
“Well, some people do. Not necessarily boys.” There was a time when that might have at drawn a laugh from Vivian, albeit one that she did not particularly want to admit had been prompted by the jokes of another. After all, princesses were not supposed to laugh at jokes, not even those of King’s wards. “Arthur didn’t, not really. Not while I was in Camelot.”  
  
“Arthur is a good man,” said Vivian. Her pout didn’t look quite so effective, nor so sweet, whilst she was lying on her side with her face half-buried in blanket. “He loves me.”  
  
“He loved me, once,” Morgana replied, and was rather surprised to hear herself say the words. “Before we knew that I was his sister, that we were blood. We thought that I was being raised to be his wife, so... I suppose that we both decided it would be better if we loved each other at least a little.”  
  
“That’s not proper love. Proper love is where you’d do anything for a person, fight for them,” Vivian curled tighter as she spat her words: “die for them.”  
  
“Well, you can die for a person without loving them, and love someone without dying for them. No point loving someone if you end up dead and they’ve no chance to fall in love again, is there?”  
  
“ _Would_ do anything for them,” Vivian mumbled.  
  
“People died for Uther.”  
  
“Because of Uther.”  
  
“And for him. The knights, the ones who defended him, you can’t say they died but for Uther. Even my father.” The words had left her lips before Morgana could stop herself. She remembered being seven years old and watching her father’s funeral pyre, watching him burn away whilst her mother cried. Within weeks she had been an orphan, and before her mother was even laid out there had been another knight come to take her to the castle. She hadn’t known Uther then, other than a distant tall figure with a crown, only to be told that he was going to be the one to look after her now.  
  
Arthur had been disappointed that she wasn’t a boy, and then angry when she had beaten him up anyway. In either case, he had refused to speak to her for over a week. It had been only a few months later, and just as they were starting to do something like trust each other, that Vivian had arrived and served to give them a common enemy by insulting Camelot with almost every breath she took.  
  
“It’s not my fault that your father died,” said Vivian sniffily, the effect once again spoilt by her position. She spat a few hairs out of her mouth, but didn’t add anything.  
  
“No,” said Morgana. The word came out cold, mostly because she knew that Vivian was absolutely right. There was no _fault_ ; perhaps at most she could blame Uther, but even then he was not the one holding the blade that had killed Gorlois. That was probably some magic user, desperate and hunted like an animal, thinking about escaping and ending up killing instead.  
  
She knew how easy that path was to follow.  
  
“People die when their time comes, no sooner, no later. Whoever does the killing is just filling their role.”  
  
It was not supposed to be her that killed Uther. But it had been Uther’s time to die, and magic was on the verge of stopping it. Magic needed to be stopped by magic, and that was where Morgana had found herself.  
  
“We all die for something, or for someone. Why is love any different?”  
  
“’Cause it’s love.”  
  
“What sort of love? Filial love? Platonic? _Eros, storge, philia, agape?_ ” Words from far-distant lands. “I loved my parents for raising me, and Uther for doing the same. I loved Arthur because I thought that I needed to.”  
  
“True love,” said Vivian.  
  
It was, in some ways, almost as if she was prompting Morgana to give a speech which had been long prepared. She had not moved, hands still tightly wound in the blanket, but her eyes were now at least fixed on Morgana rather than on nothing.  
  
“Romantic love, then. Betrothal, marriage, sex. If you’re lucky enough to marry for love, of course.”  
  
“I don’t think that you’ve _ever_ been in love,” announced Vivian finally, lifting her head up so that she could enunciate the words more clearly. There didn’t seem to be tears in her eyes any more, though her bottom lip was still protruding and quivering slightly.  
  
Morgana glared at her. “Really?”  
  
“Really,” said Vivian. She tugged her handful of blanket closer to her chest. “Otherwise you’d understand. Proper love. Not like expecting to marry Arthur. _My_ Arthur.”  
  
“Then _your_ Arthur has married _my_ Gwen, and there’s no use getting into a fight now.”  
  
Vivian’s breakfast sat untouched on the table next to her bed, bowl and flagon and spoon. An apple sat next to it, shiny red and still with its stem and small leaf attached. Morgana scooped it up, removed the stem with a deft twist, and tilted the apple back and forth on her fingertips. The mere fact that Vivian was not talking would, during their previous meetings, have counted as something of a miracle; for now, she took it as a sign that Vivian might be listening.  
  
“It was supposed to be me that Gwen kissed. It was supposed to be my bed that she curled up in at night, even when we were so shy that we just held hands. It was supposed...”  
  
The words hurt too much to say. Not wanting to even continue, Morgana took a bite out of the apple in her hand. It was tart, somehow still not quite ripe despite the looming cold of winter, but she swallowed it down nonetheless.  
  
“Gwen?” echoed Vivian. She actually pushed herself up, into a sitting position with one arm still supporting some of her weight, and looked at Morgana with something approaching curiosity. One temple and cheek were flushed from where she had been leaning on them, but she didn’t seem aware of or concerned by the fact. “Guinevere?”  
  
“Yes. The maidservant you were so rude to whilst you were in Camelot.” That was an old grievance, one which she had actually thought she had forgotten until suddenly it was bubbling to the surface and spilling from her lips. “The woman who was at my side for years. The woman who is now Arthur’s queen.”  
  
“But... _I_ should have Arthur. Then you should take Guinevere back.”  
  
Morgana laughed, despite herself, the sound cold and the movements of her muscles making her side hurt afresh, but laughing all the same. There was almost a pang of jealousy in her heart at how simple Vivian’s thoughts were; but they were not from Vivian. Vivian had been bright, caustic, not necessarily nice but at least intelligent enough to have some sharpness to the barbs that left her tongue.  
  
This was not Vivian.  
  
“If that were how it worked, things would be far simpler,” Morgana settled for.  
  
“Things _should_ be simple,” declared Vivian, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and rolled over onto her other side with a pointed thud. Morgana glared at her back, then took another bite out of the apple, wrinkling her nose as she realised that it was starting to turn brown in her hand. The sound of it crunching beneath her teeth seemed inordinately loud in the room, especially in the wake of the words which she knew that had said.  
  
Morgause had told her to forget that life, as if it were that simple. Make the decision, and erase your whole past from your mind. Unfortunately, Morgana had yet to learn the magic for that, incantation or potion, and in all honestly she did not think that it could exist. She almost wished that it might, something that could take away memories, or at least memories of pain, but dreaded to think how widely it could be abused. How tempting it would be, even, to abuse it herself. But she could imagine equally its good and its evil: how it could take away the pain from the minds of many, but how it could be used to keep people pliant and submissive beneath the hands of cruel rulers.  
  
Though she supposed that only made it like any other magic.  
  
Vivian did not say anything further, even though Morgana waited long enough, at the very least, to eat the rest of the apple and set the core back down on the breakfast tray. Once or twice she gave a sniff, or shifted her shoulders slightly, but that was it.  
  
Perhaps she should have found more words. Something else that might have made Vivian respond, something that might have drawn words from her. But it was too difficult to find more words when she had already exposed herself to Vivian, more than she had either intended or expected to. Thoughts of Gwen, smiling and happy, with flowers in her hands, intruded upon her silence, and finally Morgana rose to her feet and swept from the room. The guard did not stop her from doing so.  
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_ **Interlude** _

_ **  
** _

_Fear rolled across the hills. They had heard what had happened, in the other villages, the disappearances and the deaths. Someone had noticed that the movement of the darkness followed a path, and those who found themselves on it quailed all the more. Prayers flitted in the darkness: some to the new god, some to the Old Religion which lingered still on every hill and stone and in the memories of the people as a whole. It was written across the land and into it, and not yet had every god of every valley been released from the reverence in which they were held.  
  
The first howl split the air as loud as thunder and bold as lightning, and women clutched their children to their breasts at the sound of it. Dogs scratched at the bottom of doors, snarling, or ran to hide in dark corners of the houses. The air grew tight, breathless, as men watched doorways with weapons in their hands or checked the tightness of the shutters on their windows.  
  
A babe in arms, too young to understand, began to cry, low and whimpering for attention. Fearfully his mother and elder brother hushed him, cradling him close and murmuring a wordless lullaby.  
  
“Ewthyr Cynan,” said their eldest daughter to her uncle, who was watching from a knothole in the shutters and fingering the dagger at his hip. “Do you see anything?”  
  
A flicker of white flashed through the village, almost invisible in its speed, and Cynan swallowed back his fear. “No, Hafren,” he lied.  
  
Scrabbling sounded at the back door, and they froze, turning with breath caught in their throats. Of them all, Hafren was the one who crept closer, bending as if to peer underneath. The scrabbling came again, more insistent this time, with a whine beside it, and Hafren caught a glimpse of paws at the base of the door, of a snuffling dark nose surrounded by white fur.  
  
“It’s only the dog,” she said, with a relieved laugh that had a touch of hysteria about it. Straightening, she crossed to the door, as certain as any fourteen-year-old always is that she was in the right. “I didn’t realise he was outside!”  
  
She reached out for the handle just as a low, warning growl crept out from beneath the table. Cynan whirled, eyes going wide, to see their shaggy wolfhound hunched against the wall with teeth bared, hackles raised, eyes glinting in the candlelight.  
  
“No, Hafren!” he shouted, going to lunge towards her.  
  
Too late; the door fell open beneath her hand, and every candle and torch was smothered in a heartbeat. A low snarl, a flash of white, a scream.  
  
Then silence._


	6. Chapter 6

“It did not work.”  
  
That had been apparent almost immediately, in Morgana’s opinion, but she did not say as much. It was an improvement at least that Olaf was meeting with her in his chambers, rather than in hers, and that instead of watching her work he was writing, in tight controlled letters, what appeared at a glance to be a speech. She worked not to look too closely at it, despite the itching curiosity that nagged at her.  
  
“I made it clear at the time that I did not much expect it to,” she said instead, wrapping one hand around the arm of the chair, feeling the worn, rounded edges of the carvings. It felt familiar, comforting. “What has happened to Vivian is not the result of a potion, and seems frankly too strong to be caused even by a charm. I suspect it is a full spell, powerful, cast by a magic user.”  
  
“But you took this approach because it was a safe one,” Olaf replied, finally laying aside his quill and looking up. His eyes were cool, his gaze measured, as he rested his hands on the table and steepled his fingers together. She remembered the Olaf who had threatened to kill Arthur over the perceived slight to someone’s honour – though whether that someone had been Vivian or Olaf, she could not say. She could not, in those days, have expected the words which she heard from him in these. “And for that, I thank you.”  
  
The words were unexpectedly soft, and they caught her off guard. Morgana shifted in the chair, wrapping one arm around her, the frown that had become natural coming back to her face. Finally, she managed: “There are many reasons to proceed in the safest way possible.”  
  
“Yes, doubtless it does weigh on your mind that if anything were to harm Vivian, I would probably put you to death straight away,” he said, just as briskly as before, and the warmth of fatherhood evaporated in an instant. Well, at least that made one part of him easier to deal with. “If I had the slightest thought it might be intentional. As for accident... well, that would depend on whether I was more grieved or angry.”  
  
“Do you really think that anger would win out when your daughter was at stake?”  
  
Olaf paused for a moment, then gave a slight nod of his head, as if in acknowledgement. “It would depend, I suspect, on the extent of the harm. A burn, vomiting? I would be angry. Something more serious and I imagine that grief would win out, and I would have no thoughts for you but to send you back to Camelot and let them deal with you there.”  
  
She supposed that it was fair, in a way. After Morgause’s death, she had wanted to slide down into grief and hide there, too tired to be angry, too sick to fight. Perhaps it would have been better for her, even, to have let the natural grief win over rather than reach for fire in her magic, with everything that had happened afterwards.  
  
“King Uther sent messengers to every kingdom within a month’s travel, you know,” Olaf added suddenly, and Morgana looked up with her frown returning. “When you disappeared, the first time. Over two years ago now. I told him I had heard nothing of you, and I was not much inclined to let his men into my land again unless they had news of what had happened to Vivian.”  
  
The time with Morgause had been long, and bittersweet, and though Morgana had been sure that it would be important for her to return, part of her had not wanted to. After her father’s death she had been away from her blood kin for so long that it had felt like finally dressing an old wound to have someone to call sister. It had explained, as well, the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams for as long as she could recall, so long that she had assumed they had belonged to a figment of her imagination and were not like her other, darker dreams. Any dream that had not scared her she had believed to be a dream alone; even now, she was tempted to do so. Her visions always seemed to be nightmares.  
  
In the wake of her silence, Olaf lifted the goblet of wine that sat at his left hand, pausing for a moment before drinking deeply. “It seemed that both of us blamed the other for the loss of our daughters.”  
  
“Save that Uther never recognised me as his daughter,” Morgana replied, bitterness seeping into her tone. Her hand rubbed vaguely at the dressed wound in her side, though she knew it would not help and might just pain her further. Merely by being there, it seemed to creep into her mind and refuse to leave her thoughts.  
  
Olaf looked at her over the goblet he still held. “He may have called you ward, but you were never treated differently than a king’s daughter would have been. Do you not think sometimes that perhaps he did not speak out of respect for Gorlois?”  
  
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask with a sneer when Uther had thought of anyone but himself. From somewhere, though, perhaps from Olaf’s gaze or the borrowed life in which she found herself, a whisper reminded her that she had been selfish herself, too often, and that perhaps even if she ruled a land she would think of herself more often than she ought. For what person was capable of doing anything else? They all had selfishness within them.  
  
The thoughts clogged in her head, whirling like a sudden maelstrom, and words stumbled from her lips: “I must go.” Her hands clutched at the arms of the chair to pull herself upright, sudden clenching pain in her chest at the thoughts that assailed her.  
  
Olaf’s expression did not change, and nor did he rise. “Very well,” he said, voice – she would later think – unexpectedly gentle.  
  
Her sleeplessness that night was not solely, or even mostly, due to her dreams. She remembered the whispers that had fed into her, all of the vengeance of Morgause and the solipsism of Cenred and the anger of Agravaine, and before them all when she had been angry but had wanted change more than revenge, and suddenly she felt very alone in her own head. She wondered what had happened to being twenty instead of four-and-twenty, of not knowing truths but equally not knowing lies, and pretended that she shivered with the cold and not with suppressed tears.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning she rose chattering with cold and with shadows plum-dark beneath her eyes. A maid appeared, helped her perfunctorily to dress, and when the guards appeared at her door Morgana merely sighed as she turned to them.  
  
“Where am I expected today?”  
  
“The King wishes for you to speak to the Lady Vivian once again.”  
  
She suppressed a grimace. “Naturally. Very well.” Setting aside the book that she had been about to open, she scooped up the cloak that she had taken to wearing about the castle, and went to follow the guards. It probably should have been something of a compliment that she was no longer kept under lock and key, but Morgana did not much like being at Olaf’s beck and call with the threat of death still hanging over her head.  
  
Still, at least it was better than death. It seemed that everyone with whom she had tried to ally herself had defected or been killed, and she was being left ever more alone in her black gown and witch’s cottage.  
  
On her way up the steps to Vivian’s tower, she stumbled on the hem of her current too-long, floral dress, and rolled her eyes whilst she bit back a curse on the thing. It would probably not be too popular a declaration to make. If the next dress was this ill-fitting, Morgana was considering taking to a needle and thread herself to try to correct it; embroidery and sewing were fitting activities for a king’s ward, at least, and she had turned them to more practical uses when she had found herself exiled and in need of clothes. It was remarkable what skills could be discovered by need.  
  
Straightening, she continued up the stairs, holding up the front of her skirt in an iron grip. With the guards at Camelot, she might once have shared a conspiratorial laugh, but this was a world far different, and she was far different besides.  
  
One of the guards unlocked the door and stepped through, bowing from the waist. “Your Highness, the Lady Morgana wishes to speak with you.”  
  
“A pity,” came the sharp reply. “For I do not wish to speak with her.”  
  
Compared to all of the previous weeks, Vivian sounded the most like herself in that moment, and Morgana wondered whether she should be glad of that or offended at the response itself. She settled for voicing neither, and waited whilst the guard apparently scrambled for a suitable reply. Nothing was forthcoming, however, and Morgana pushed past him into the room.  
  
“Doubly a pity,” she said. “For I am going to anyway.”  
  
Vivian was sitting in her bed, knees tucked up to her chest, toying with a curl of her hair which she had drawn over her shoulder. She was pouting, and but for the look in her eyes, still glazed, half-dead, she would have looked like the Vivian that Morgana remembered once again.  
  
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Vivian said again, though at least this time it was directed to Morgana rather than merely spoken about her. “You won’t help me.”  
  
Morgana nodded to each of the guards, who regarded her warily but without a word took up their positions inside and outside the door. She crossed the floor, footsteps muffled on the sheepskin rug, and sat down in the chair at Vivian’s bedside. Vivian shot her a look that had a shadow of its old venom to it.  
  
“That depends on what help you are searching for.”  
  
“I want Arthur. You won’t help me to get back to him, or contact him, or anything. So you aren’t of any help at all.”  
  
“Then what do you think that I am here for?”  
  
This, at least, caused Vivian to pause in stroking her hair and purse her lips. Morgana folded her arms in a sort of petty triumph, settling into the chair more quickly this time.  
  
“Aside, of course, from wearing all of the cast-off dresses you have decided are beneath you over the last few years.”  
  
“My father probably thinks that you will be able to dissuade me from my love for Arthur,” replied Vivian finally, airily, flicking her hair back so that she could cross her hands prettily across her knees and lean against the headboard. She looked up at the canopy above her bed as if she was looking for shapes in the clouds. “Probably thinks that you’ll put some spell on me or something, or if he doesn’t allow you to do that then maybe he thinks that I’ll be reminded that Arthur is _your_ brother.”  
  
“So the secret to ending the love for all ages is to just find some undesirable relatives? Hardly seems worth it.”  
  
She did not dwell on the fact that, once again, she was reduced to her connection to the King of Camelot. Vivian, however, seemed somewhat insulted by the slight to her great love affair, to judge by the fact that she clenched her hands into fists and pulled them tighter against each other.  
  
“ _No_. I will _not_ be torn away from my Arthur by something as simple as that. I will not, I will not, I will _not_.” She slammed her fists down on the bedcovers beside her on the final declaration, with a bounce that sent her hair flying and flouncing around her.  
  
“Well, at least I’m not that undesirable, then.”  
  
Vivian crossed her arms, stuffing her fists beneath her armpits, and shoved her legs out straight across the bedclothes, ankles still demurely crossed. There was an angry flush to her cheeks.  
  
“Anyway,” Morgana continued, as if they were doing nothing more than conversing about dresses to make sure that they did not wear the same colour to a feast, “tell me, then. What was it that made you fall in love with Arthur?”  
  
“I just knew,” replied Vivian archly. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the spill of her hair, something which she seemed to realise as she reached up to push it back into place. “It came to me in my dreams, that I had been wrong all along, and then I woke up in the morning and I knew.”  
  
Morgana carried the words away into her mind, holding tightly to them. At night, then, the spell must have been cast, placing Arthur into Vivian’s dreams. But the spell that had been similarly placed upon Arthur had been broken, and during the short time between rounds of battle at that.  
  
In more recent days, she might have assumed that it was Emrys’s doing, to undo strong magic at the snap of his fingers. Then, however, her magic had been only burgeoning, and they had not yet begun to clash. There must therefore have been something else that broke the spell, and she clung to that thought.  
  
“And you knew that he loved you also?”  
  
“Oh yes. He had told me as such, before, when I was too blind to have seen.” Anger dissipating, Vivian gave a wistful sigh, and tilted her head back dreamily. “When I knew, I attempted to reach him, but... something stood in my way. I don’t recall what.” She shook her shoulders, then continued; Morgana could only assume that anything not directly related to Arthur was clearly irrelevant to this story. “In any case, I awoke again, and... he was there.”  
  
A sigh, filled with youthful joy, and Vivian looked at least for a moment to be twenty-two years old again.  
  
“He took me in his arms, kissed me–”  
  
It seemed that she was ready to rapturously continue, and Morgana interrupted before the conversation could turn to a direction which she certainly did not want to think about where Arthur was concerned. “Your dream,” she said. “Tell me more about your dream.”  
  
“It was just sort of... a realisation,” Vivian gushed. She put one hand to her chest, fingers spread as if she was holding her own heart in her chest. Ever the one for dramatics, Morgana thought. “It came to me all at once: what a good man Arthur was, how devoted he was to his men, to his people, how honourable, how...” she sought words, and Morgana waited with a morbid fascination to see what would come next. “ _Strident_ he was.”  
  
At a feast, she would have pretended to drink in order to hide the choke of shock and laughter that threatened to bubble over her lips; now, she stared fixedly at a point just above Vivian’s shoulder.  
  
“And how handsome, as well... his blue eyes like the finest lapis, his golden hair like... gold in the sunlight.”  
  
Morgana supposed that she couldn’t really argue that comparison.  
  
“And his voice! Oh, I could speak forever about his voice...”  
  
After a while, it started to feel as if she did. As long as she pretended that she was listening to Vivian talk about some nameless, imaginary suitor, however, Morgana found that it was relatively easy to bear her babbling, and relatively comforting to hear her speak with actual enthusiasm on something again. All the while, she listened for words that seemed out of place on the princess’s tongue, anything that did not seem as if it could come from within the Vivian that she had known, and waited to see what might form out of words spoken in enchanted innocence.  
  
  
  
  
  
It seemed to be an eternity later when Morgana finally disentangled herself from the enraptured Vivian. They had spoken – mostly, Vivian had spoken – at great length about those fateful days in Camelot, of everything which had been occurring whilst Morgana had been more interested in keeping track of the negotiations as they took place. She had not been allowed to sit at the table whilst discussions were happening – although Arthur would have been, had he deigned to be there for more than the first day – but she had been allowed into the room, and had watched carefully to see how politics played out around a table of supposed equals.  
  
She felt as if her mind was stuffed with wool by the time that she left Vivian’s quarters, hours after they had eaten lunch together sitting cross-legged on the bed and supposedly reminiscing about days gone by. In truth, Morgana’s stomach had twisted too much to eat, but her tongue had been too tied to speak, and she had chewed her food to liquid whilst Vivian spoke.  
  
No doubt Olaf would, at least, be relieved that his daughter was capable of speech once again; speech in great quantities, no less. The sky had grown dark, and Morgana’s stomach was growling no matter how much she tried to ignore it, as she was escorted to Olaf’s chambers to give her description of what had passed during the day.  
  
Olaf was seated at his desk once again, this time with both wine and food set before him as he read over a message. A broken wax seal still clung to the end of the scroll, and Olaf’s deep frown betrayed how unwelcome it was.  
  
“You bring news of Vivian,” he said, without looking up, as she was guided to sit in the chair opposite him. He waved a hand towards the barely-touched platter of food before him in what she would hazard a guess was an invitation. “How did the day go?”  
  
“She spoke to me,” Morgana said. His eyes were still tracing the writing on the parchment. “At great length, and not _just_ about Arthur.”  
  
Finally, his full attention shifted to her, and he dropped the parchment to the table. His expression grew more difficult to read, something hopeful mixed in with something that she could not quite define, and she swallowed before continuing.  
  
“Some of it was about him, but... some of it was not. We spoke about Camelot, and some of the time that we spent together as children.”  
  
“Was it... true, what she said?” The hard tone of royalty had gone, replaced with a carefully-phrased hope that even Morgana could not miss.  
  
“Other than some exaggeration over how much she actually liked Arthur when we were children, yes. It was... correct.”  
  
She knew why they both lingered over the words, so carefully chosen. If what Vivian had said related well to what had happened in the past, it made it seem more likely that Vivian herself was really _there_ , that the magic which had wormed its way into her had not done too much damage in its wake.  
  
There were no more words for her to offer afterwards, however. The thought that the spell must have been cast into Vivian’s dreams was still too much of a possibility, rather than a certainty, and there was nothing of which she could be certain.  
  
“May I ask what you are reading? It seems to trouble you.”  
  
Even to her own ears, the words were bold. In years gone past she would have stood at Uther’s shoulder and asked the same question, whilst with Arthur she would generally have just taken the parchment from his hand and laughed at his annoyance. It seemed a far-off time. In her own short reigns there had not been time for such, and part of her had felt as if she was merely sitting on a throne, owner of a castle rather than ruler of a kingdom.  
  
Olaf glanced to the parchment and back again, breathed out between pursed lips, then placed it down on the table and slid it across towards Morgana. “It is another report from the villages,” he said, as she spun it round to let her eyes skim over it. The writing was simple, unembellished, but practiced enough to be neat. “You heard, before, about some sort of creature that has been abroad in my Kingdom. At first, I thought that it was a rumour and fear, nothing more, but there are more stories appearing.”  
  
“Deaths?”  
  
“Some. And more disappearances. But the disappearances are of young women, or even girls, and it is frightening people more, I think, than if it were men.”  
  
Morgana did not say aloud that as far as she had seen, men were little more likely to go looking for trouble than any other group, or that the fearlessness of children made them seem bound for danger on occasions. She did know, however, that all too often fear could outstrip its origin.  
  
“The women are genuinely missing? They have not run away from home, perhaps with a lover?”  
  
Olaf’s grunt indicated that he had entertained the same thought. “I had someone ask, but the girls are the only ones missing from each village. And although some of them are near or just past twenty, the youngest was only eleven. Besides, this is the sixth disappearance, and people are frightened. I doubt girls would be choosing this time to run away in numbers.”  
  
She had to allow a nod in response, reading further down. Olaf had clearly sent one of his knights to investigate, and the report which he had sent back was disturbing but also vague. As she reached the end, she turned over the parchment as if expecting more, but it was of course blank.  
  
Morgana sighed. “Hounds, they say.” Her fingers traced across the parchment as her mind worked. “Only hounds. No horses, no riders, no horns. And reports are confusing as to where the sounds are even heard from.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Olaf. It interrupted her thoughts, and Morgana bit back the urge to scowl and order him silent whilst she thought. “At first I was uncertain, but frankly I don’t doubt that there is something on my hills, taking my people.”  
  
The possessiveness in his voice was sharp, and Morgana almost bristled against it, but at the same time she could hear nothing cold in it. She supposed that it was Olaf’s brand of paternal instinct, the same one which held her against her will and as fugitive from Camelot in the desperate hope of removing the spell which had been cast on Vivian.  
  
“More than that, the people believe that there is magic involved.”  
  
Her eyes flicked upwards. Olaf reached forwards and leant both elbows on the table, twining his fingers together as he regarded her coolly.  
  
“From these descriptions, and from what you have said, I am inclined to think that they are right. Therefore I want you to come with me and my men when we go to investigate tomorrow.”  
  
Disbelief flashed through her, and her expression must have betrayed it from the way that Olaf sighed and shook his head. Morgana shifted uncomfortably in her chair, one hand gripping the arm for some sort of stability, and drew herself more upright. “You have all but banned me from leaving the castle before now, and certainly banned me from busying myself with anything other than Vivian’s health. This is a change, to say the least.”  
  
“Until this point, the greatest magical threat within my sights has been that which lies on Vivian,” replied Olaf curtly. “Now, it seems, there is another.”  
  
“And for some unfathomable reason, you have only one magic user with whom to talk.” Morgana found her tongue, though she rather had the suspicion that she would regret the words later. She could see anger boiling under Olaf’s skin already, in the way that his lips pulled tight and he placed his hands flat on the table, fingers spread. Before he could say anything, she rose sharply to her feet, a whirl of movement which had years of arrogance behind it, and stepped to stand behind the chair. “Perhaps you should have considered magical defences before you presumed all magic was an offence. The deal was that I work on healing Vivian, not answer to your beck and call.”  
  
She spat the words, with all of the venom of the sorceress and the self-assurance of the king’s ward, wound together in her past. On the last word, Morgana slapped her hand on the back of the wooden chair with a dull thud, and turned to leave.  
  
“And perhaps, with Uther’s death and the shift of power, there will be a time for magical defences once again. But for now, there is nothing, and people are dying.”  
  
It was the former part of his speech which stopped her, but the latter which made her clench her fists and stop in her angry strides. One slow breath, and then she bowed her head just slightly before half-turning, and looking back over her shoulder. “What makes you so sure that I will care?”  
  
He could have replied that the thickness in her voice let him know, and it probably would have been a fair response. Equally the fact that she had stopped, or the fact that in the conversations they had already had she had given him enough clues. It was only as she asked the question that she became aware of all of the answers herself.  
  
Olaf did not offer her a reply.  
  
“What do you want from me, on this matter?” she asked. Her voice had fallen quieter, more serious, without anger – forced or otherwise – to fuel her.  
  
“I want you to offer me the explanations that I cannot find elsewhere.” She had not expected words of that sort, especially not from a man like Olaf. To accompany, he had thought she might have said, or to speak of magic. She did not expect so blunt an explanation that was, at the same time, so redolent with undertones. “I need your help, Morgana, it is as simple as that.”  
  
She nodded, unable to find words, then turned to leave. The tightness in her chest felt almost like relief as, this time, she was allowed to go.


	7. Chapter 7

They rode out at dawn, thin grey light painting the landscape in monotone that made Morgana regret her words all over again. Damp crept into her bones, a cold that seemed to be completely independent from the rain and lingered even when the sun came out. Olaf headed the short column, with a half dozen of his knights, servants leading pack-horses, and Morgana with her hands loosely bound and wearing the most practical and most ill-fitting garments that she had yet endured.  
  
The ride lasted almost all of the day, with only a brief break when the sun was at its highest, which seemed more meant for the comfort of the horses than for that of the men. Morgana took the opportunity to walk around, under the watch of the men and keeping her hands clasped so as to mask as much as possible the humiliation of the rope that was wrapped around them.  
  
Under sunlight, Morgana had to admit that Powys was a somewhat more attractive country, though still not so fine as Camelot in the summer. In her childhood visits she had not much cared for the land, and her memories of those times seemed to be of unending rain that kept her, Arthur and Vivian cooped up together in the castle to endlessly annoy each other. With an adult eye, she could see that Powys was not so rich in colour as Camelot, like a watercolour placed beside an oil painting, but had a beauty all the same. Clouds shimmered like fish-scales in the sky, and a cool dry breeze gave an edge to the air which warned that a deeper cold was possible. Up on the hilltops, the horizon stretched long and lazily around the world, not breeched by forests like she was used to, and with valleys dropping out of sight rather than hills reaching upwards. It was as if the relief of the land had been reversed, life taking place on the crest of the kingdom rather than in its valleys.  
  
She was not sure how long she stood looking out, sinking into memories of the times that she had spent here, or Vivian in Camelot, when they were children. At one point, she had thought that it would be grand to have another girl to be on her side in fights with Arthur, only to find that, with Vivian present, she was siding with Arthur more often.  
  
“It takes a while to see that it is beautiful.” She started at Olaf’s words and almost shied away from him, but he was still gazing out into the distance as well. “Eventually, you realise.”  
  
“It is good, at least, to be out of the citadel,” Morgana replied. It came out rather sharper than she had imagined it, but then she remembered her weeks trapped in the castle and felt justification flood back.  
  
Olaf gave a low huff of breath, but replied civilly enough. “Well, I am glad that things can be considered to be improving.”  
  
For that, she had no reply, and tightened the grip of one hand around the other wrist as she heard Olaf walk away again. Only moments later, the sound of people moving and talking announced that the train was to move on again, and she returned before she could need to be summoned like a stray dog. She managed to return to the saddle with a minimum of aid, and they turned eastward again as the sun began to turn behind them.  
  
  
  
Nobody had told her the name of the village by the time that she set foot to ground in the midst of it. A handful of people, mostly men but with a couple of stern-faced women, were gathered in the centre and clearly meant to have been bought together to petition the King. Olaf dismounted to stand in front of them, rather than speaking down at them from a height, and those of his knights closest to him followed suit. Morgana untangled her wide skirt and slid down from the saddle as well, slipping forward to stand at Olaf’s shoulder and make her own survey of the group.  
  
Fear hung in the air as thick as sea-mist. The clouds were thickening overhead as the afternoon wore on, but Morgana had no doubt that the fear had preceded the overcast and would outlast it as well. Although each would glance at Olaf in turn, none of them would say more than one or two phrases, save for the man who begged for his daughter to be found, before it was too late.  
  
He would not say what it would be too late for.  
  
They tarried for some time, but it became rapidly apparent that there was little that the people would say in front of the King, even less than had been outlined in the report that had been sent back. Morgana could see the nervousness among the villages as clearly as Olaf’s mounting annoyance, and was not at all surprised when, with a curt dismissal, he announced that he was going to see the camp set up before anything further would be done.  
  
  
  
  
The knights and the servants worked together to set up the tents, starting with Olaf’s and working outwards. Morgana was allowed to stand aside as they did so, and tried to stay discreetly out of the way whilst stretching her aching limbs and at the same time revelling in the burn of her muscles in the wake of having worked so hard. Olaf moved among the men, talking to one or two, giving orders here and there but not needing to raise his voice to be listened to.  
  
Compared to Prince Arthur, who trained and joked and laughed with his men, Olaf had seemed distant and stern to her when they were children. She could not help but suppose, however, that compared to Uther he had not grown so distant with age, nor so obsessive. Powys had kept mostly to itself over the years, with little to no trouble within its borders and a careful eye on the problems of others, whilst Camelot had bounded across the political attentions of all of its neighbours, and continued to do so into King Arthur’s reign.  
  
The tent set up for her was barely high enough to sit up in, and she hoped that it was as waterproofed as she had been assured. By the time that the men were starting to build a fire to prepare dinner, Olaf’s far larger tent had been set up, crisp and pale against the deepening dark of the sky, and he had disappeared from her view.  
  
Frustration beaded under Morgana’s skin. She could feel the fear in the air, and stronger still the magic that burned across the land, raw and wild. And he had walked away from it. Head held high, she marched over to the tent, rather thrilled to find herself unchallenged as she threw open the doorway and stepped in.  
  
It was sparse, with only a rug of hides across the floor, a low bed unrolled in one corner, and a desk and folding chair in the centre. She had expected to find Olaf there, but it was empty. Perhaps, she had to think, that was why she had been let into the tent in the first place.  
  
The desk was almost bare as well, a writing-box set to one side and a lamp providing the only light. Morgana looked over it, trailed her bound hands around the worn edge, and then rather unceremoniously sat on one corner. It was probably not the most comfortable thing that she could have done considering the effects of a day’s riding, but she grimaced and shifted her weight to the least sore part of her rear and turned to face the door.  
  
It was not long before Olaf appeared in the doorway, boots caked in mud and frown etched on his face. He stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Morgana, now rather lounging against his desk with the haughtiest look that she could muster.  
  
“Why are you ignoring the people of the village?” she asked before he could order or ask her to move.  
  
“I am hardly ignoring them,” he replied, dropping the tent flap closed behind him and shucking off his gloves, “when they refuse to talk to me in the first place.”  
  
“Of course they’re not talking to you,” she said. “Magic is against the law of the land. Anybody who knows what is going on here must have knowledge of magic, and they fear they will be executed for it!”  
  
“Nobody has been executed in years,” Olaf snapped. His cloak whipped behind him as he strode to his desk in the centre of the great tent, sitting down at the table set beside it as if he was taking to his throne again.  
  
“Well, unfortunately peoples’ memories last for more than a few years.”  
  
She was rewarded with a glare, one which she perhaps deserved but was not really in the mood to receive. There had been too many people who had come to her in secrecy, with hoods drawn low or mufflers wound high. Though that was before she even became particularly angry at the world, before she started to frighten people away with her clothes and shouts and the whispered rumours of what she could do.  
  
“They’re frightened of being punished, Olaf,” she said, this time with a sigh as she folded her arms across her chest – a gesture made awkward by the ropes tying them together – and leant her hip against the desk.  
  
“That is, after all, the point of punishment.”  
  
“Well, it is not helping you here.”  
  
Olaf’s look became more pointed, one hand coming to rest on the table whilst the other propped up his chin. They both knew the background of this argument was: not the fact that the people were too scared to speak to him on this issue, but that it had come from Uther’s anger and fear, that the other kings had deferred to him and allowed his madness to infect their kingdoms, and that Morgana had come at least in part from the world which Uther had created. They both knew that the world could have been very different.  
  
Morgana gave a sigh, dropping her arms back in front of her again and leaning a little more of her weight on the desk. “I can feel the magic here, Olaf. It burns in the air, it stinks. And unless there is something in this village which makes the world strange indeed, there is at least one person here who knows it. But they will not talk to you.”  
  
“Then what do you suggest? Disguise one of my men, send them out instead? Or send Aeslyn, perhaps? She used to keep the company of magic-users, in the days when magic was much a part of healing.”  
  
To be frank, Morgana had little doubt that Aeslyn was a magic-user as well, albeit one whose magic was less strong, less dominating, than that of some others. It was in the same way that she had often suspected that Gaius had more knowledge of magic than someone who did not use it would ever have need of.  
  
“There are those whom people will talk to about magic. About the Old Religion.”  
  
This time, it seemed, he caught her meaning, and frowned at her. “You mean to approach them yourself.”  
  
“I mean to let them approach me, which is not quite the same thing.”  
  
She could see the struggle written on his face. Even while she was his prisoner, even with bonds on her wrist to constrain her magic and ropes to constrain her movement, he knew that she was and could be powerful, a figurehead in her own right for defiance and magic. They both knew it, just as they both knew that people were frightened and awed by her in equal measure. But equally, he knew that she was right, and that the people would talk to her in a way in which they never would to him or to his men.  
  
“Very well,” he said finally, so quietly that she almost did not hear it, and a smirk found her lips. This time, however, it did not feel as venomous as it once had. She drew herself upright again, and extended her wrists towards him.  
  
“So, am I to be released?”  
  
“And what would there be to prevent you from leaving? I have nothing that I can ask to hold in ransom, and I am not sure that there is anyone about whom you particularly care anymore.” Olaf had not moved from his seated position, although the fingers still resting on the desk’s edge now scratched, rather than tapped, at its surface. With some effort, Morgana did not allow her face to show the pain which his words stirred, the reminder which he probably did not mean to give her.  
  
“My honour?”  
  
He simply gave her a pointed look. The unspoken words were clear: where was her honour when she had usurped both her father and her brother in the past two years alone?  
  
“I am here to address this magic. It will do me no good if I feed you lies, or run out onto the highlands with no food, no water and no protection. More than that, I have no magic. Even without these creatures abroad on the hills, I would be endangered. Think of me what you will, but do not think me a fool.”  
  
She turned her hands slightly, bending the thick knot of rope between her wrists towards him. Olaf looked at it for a moment as if in consideration, then rose to his feet, drawing a dagger from his belt. Even knowing on a rational level that he would not hurt her, she could not help the shiver of fear that ran down her spine at its glint in the torchlight. A cold touch against the inside of her wrist, and then the rope was cut through. Stifling a gasp, Morgana kept her hands still whilst Olaf removed the rope and cast it to the ground before sheathing his dagger and returning to his seat.  
  
“Go, then,” he said curtly, looking to the ground. Morgana bowed her head, though he probably did not see the gesture, and turned to leave. It was not until she was outside the tent that she ran her hands over her chafed wrists and gave a soft sigh of relief.  
  
  
  
  
  
For once, it did not rain as Morgana slipped to the edges of the camp, and beyond the line of guards. They watched her warily, but did not speak out against her as she disappeared from their sight and walked towards the village. The air was chill but clear, and although there were still some clouds the moon shone through enough to light her way. Morgana only stumbled twice, cursing muddy ground and ill-fitting boots each time, before she reached the edge of the village.  
  
To call it a village was probably a compliment; it was a cluster of houses that nestled into a slight hollow on one of the long peaks of hill, just sheltered enough to escape from the worst bite of the wind that still cut through Olaf’s camp and threatened to put out any torch taken outside.  
  
Morgana stood in the lee of one of the houses and waited. The village was deserted, windows shuttered and darkened, with fear cloying in the air. She knew that she was a shadowed figure amongst many other shadows, even if she was no longer garbed in pure black, with her hair tousled by the wind and dark shadows beneath her eyes from a lack of sleep. It did not take long, however, before she heard a door open; she stepped forward to create a better silhouette as she wrapped her arms around herself.  
  
A cloaked figure appeared between two houses, hood pulled low and shoulders bent to disguise whatever might distinguish them. Morgana was not concerned with such an appearance, considering that most of those who had approached her in the past had been similarly disguised, and she turned to face them.  
  
“You are the last High Priestess of the Old Religion.”  
  
The voice was female, aged, and as they raised their face Morgana caught a wisp of white hair just visible in the moonlight. This woman must have lived for almost all of Morgana’s lifetime in fear of the law which banned even the smallest knowledge of the practice of magic. Before that, it had not even been a crime; suddenly, at the word of five men and in all truth the will of one, everything had changed in the Five Kingdoms.  
  
“My name is Morgana.”  
  
The old woman nodded, fast and nervously, and stepped closer. Without a word, Morgana took the hands that were offered to her, feeling the cold of the flesh and the frailness of skin stretched tight over bone.  
  
“The King has come for the beasts on the hills, but his hunting cannot defeat them.”  
  
Her voice was hoarse with age and low with fear, but there was a melodiousness to it, which must have once made it utterly beautiful. Morgana had heard of people who could weave magic into song, and could not help but wonder if this woman had been one of them. Now, though, their hands clutched tightly at each other, desperation giving the woman a greater strength.  
  
“He already fears as much,” Morgana replied. It was all but against the law of the land to speak so unkindly of the King, not matter how true it might be, but she hardly thought this was the time to pander to a royal ego by lying to one of his people. “It is why he has not bought only his knights with him.”  
  
“There is great power in these hands,” said the woman, with another of those fast nods, even as her fingers slipped down to brush against the white sateen bonds. “Great power in them still... do you know what these creatures are?”  
  
“No. That is what I came to find out.”  
  
“They are the night hunt, my priestess. They are summoned by the old creatures, on the nights when the walls between this world and others wear thin.”  
  
“What hunters drive the hounds?”  
  
“Shadows and darkness. They need no people; magic guides them.”  
  
Barely had the words left the woman’s lips when a great howl, loud enough to split the sky in two, crashed through the air with the clarity of ringing steel. Morgana grabbed the old woman close to her chest, magic rising in her head automatically and burning behind her eyes, but unable to vent itself.  
  
“Their cries lie,” the woman said. “They are far from here now. Besides, it is three nights since they were here, and three nights before that they were elsewhere again. They will be at the next village by now.”  
  
“Which way?” Morgana pulled away, turning so that she could see the woman’s face. Their sharp movements had thrown down her hood, and she could see now the woman’s face: sharp planes of bone overlain by skin so pale it was almost silver in the moonlight, lines around eyes and mouth creating flickers of shadows which only just stopped her face from looking like a skull. Her eyes, though, were piercing green, an almost unnatural shade, and shone with what might have been tears. “Which way are they going?”  
  
“They move due west,” the woman replied. “They chase the sun, chase the night.”  
  
West, into the sunset. They had ridden east to reach this place, and suddenly Morgana knew where the path of the hunt would end. “Thank you,” she said, and planted a kiss on the woman’s hand. “ _Thank you_.”  
  
She could not wait for a reply. Releasing the hands she clasped, turning away from the figure looking to her, she ran, feeling immediately the strain in limbs that had not moved so vigorously in many weeks now. Her muscles burned, the air felt hot in her lungs, but there was something liberating about being able to run again, feeling the ground disappearing beneath her feet. It was more freeing than riding, especially at night with her breath making small puffs of mist around her mouth and her clenched fists stinging in the cold air.  
  
This time the guards at the edge of the camp did not recognise her, wisping through the night like a ghost, and they shouted a challenge to her as she neared them. She did not have the breath to reply, nor to do anything more than pant angry words as one of them plucked her from the road, pinning her arms behind her back, and the other held her at swordpoint.  
  
“Let – let go! I have news for the King! It is important!”  
  
“It’s the wi- Morgana,” one of them said gruffly, and at any other time she would either have laughed or spat at him for daring to either call her a witch or use her name. Or, perhaps, treated him to the feel of what her magic could do – just a taste, just a drop from the ocean that swirled within her. “It’s her!”  
  
Her arms were released, and she staggered to her feet before them, still panting for breath. “I have news for the King. The beasts will not be here tonight – we must head west if-”  
  
Another howl cut through the air, this one even louder than before. It made the very earth rattle, and Morgana felt the scream of magic within it, scraping like a knife along her bones. “They’re getting closer,” one of the men said, hand going to the pommel of his sword.  
  
“No! It is the night hunt, the wild hunt, whatever you wish to call it! We will not hear the next call; they are moving on!”  
  
She wrested herself free of the grip still on her arm and ran again, this time for the centre of the camp. Her side burned, more from lack of fitness more than wound, and she clamped one hand to it as she pushed between the two guards outside Olaf’s tent. She stumbled in, hair clinging to her face, tracking mud and with bright burning cheeks against the icy cold of the rest of her skin.  
  
“What on this earth are you doing?” Olaf demanded, springing to his feet. Several of his knights and two men not in armour, presumably lords, were standing around him in a rough circle, at the centre of which Morgana now found herself.  
  
She paused to drag in a breath. “I spoke to one from the village who has heard of these creatures. The Wild Hunt walks your hills.”  
  
“The Wild Hunt is a myth.”  
  
“If I had my magic I could summon them myself,” she spat, and saw more than one of the men in the room flinch. In fact, she did not know whether or not she even told the truth: it was said that some of the great sorcerers and sorceresses of old had been able to call up the spectral hounds to do their will, but Morgana could not vouch for the accuracy of the stories, let alone whether she would be powerful enough to match the feat. “Wherefore do you think your myths even come?”  
  
The question was shot towards the lord who appeared to be quailing most visibly, before Morgana turned to Olaf once again.  
  
“The Wild Hunt is on your hills, and its steps turn west. I know not how many it has been sent for, or even if it will end, but it heads towards the citadel.”  
  
Olaf drew in his breath sharply, both of his hands clenching into fists atop the desk in front of him. “So far it has taken six women, and killed four men.”  
  
“It will be seven women if you do not stop them tonight.”  
  
They would not have time to strike the camp; there would barely be time to saddle the horses and ride out if they were to make it to the next village in time. A muscle in Olaf’s jaw clenched as he hesitated for a moment, and then he gave a curt nod and turned to his knights. “Ready the horses. We ride immediately.”


	8. Chapter 8

That her hands were left loose made it rather easier to ride as the horses pounded westwards, galloping to eat up the miles on the muddy road. Cloaks swished in the night, horses and men breathed steam into the air, and swords and armour clinked lightly as they rode. Morgana’s heart was racing in her chest as her ears strained for any sound of the Hunt above the noise that surrounded her, hands gripping the reins as she rose to move with the horse.  
  
Olaf was at the head of his train of knights, face drawn, eyes set on the horizon where a flicker of lights announced the next village to the west. Each lost woman, each lost girl, had been someone’s daughter and sister, and Morgana held no illusions as to how deep the thought cut him.  
  
They crested the hill, coming level with the village where individual lights could now be seen at windows and doorways. Another howl took to the air, this one quieter, but there was a ripple of tension that ran through the group all the same. It had been impressed upon them that the sounds of the Hunt were lies to fool the unwary, that they drew quieter as they drew closer.  
  
It was followed by a scream. A girl’s, high and piercing, carrying on the still night air and bouncing down from the crowds.  
  
“No,” Morgana breathed, and was herself surprised at the pain in her voice.  
  
There was a whisper of steel as Olaf drew his sword, the silver just visible in the night, and an answering flash of movement as the knights followed his lead. Morgana felt her magic flare, swelling in her as if ready to burst, and the bonds around her wrist tightened in response to the heat that swelled within her. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek against them both, and with her heels urged the horse that she rode to match the speed of the others.  
  
The village was in uproar by the time they reached it. Men and women milled in the square, shouting, waving swords and pitchforks and carrying bright-burning torches. Into their midst Olaf appeared, the torchlight painting him in fire, and wheeled his horse to a stop beside the crowd.  
  
“The King!” someone said in the crowd, and the word spread like a sickness. “The King!”  
  
“There is no time for that,” Olaf snapped, his sword still at his side even though he was shifting his grip on it almost constantly, agitated. “We heard a scream.”  
  
One of the women burst to the front of the crowd, her face pale as milk in the darkness. “My daughter! My daughter is missing – she went to look for her brother, and-”  
  
“Which way?”  
  
Trembling too much to answer further, the woman raised her hand and pointed towards the woods that could be seen as a shadow to the north of the village. Olaf turned, pointed with a sweep of his hand to Morgana and one of the knights beside her, and ordered: “You two. Stay here, find out what you can. The rest of you, with me.”  
  
He turned, moved, disappeared into the night, leaving confusion in his wake. Morgana cursed as she dismounted, stepping forward into the firelight as the knight beside her took hold of the bridles of both of their horses. She could feel the breathlessness of the crowd, the anger and fear that were roiling together and not quite certain which one was going to win out. The last thing that she needed was for either of the emotions to turn against her.  
  
She strode forwards, feeling the crowd flow to form a circle around her, and spread her arms as if to hold them back. It felt hot, powerful; Morgana suppressed the smirk that wanted to rise to her lips at the way she held the people at her fingertips.  
  
“My name is Morgana, Priestess of the Old Religion.” Her voice carried over them, across the night air, and she allowed it to grow strong and swell over them, rolling like a wave. Darkness pressed close, barely held back by the firelight, as she turned on the spot and had them follow her in shifting waves. “The King has come to answer your need for help. But I can feel the magic on these hills, I can feel the Old Religion at the edges of your world. Tell me what you have seen!”  
  
It was like casting a spell, without magic, without incantation or that burning in her blood. The bonds did not need to tighten on her wrists, could not restrain her tongue. For a moment there was no response, just murmuring, and muffled weeping from somewhere within the crowd. Morgana breathed deep, summoned what haughtiness she could, and pointed an imperious finger at one of the men at the front of the crowd, one of the ones around whom the others seemed to cluster, to whom they seemed to throw more glances.  
  
“You! The girl who is missing; what is her name?”  
  
“Enid,” he blurted, as easily as if she had bespelled him.  
  
“How old?”  
  
“Thirteen.”  
  
Young, so young. Truly a girl, not a woman, and Morgana could not but frown at the realisation. Olaf had told her that the oldest of the women had been twenty-three years old, a midwife from the first town of the line. It was still young, terribly young, but at least she had not been a child.  
  
She forced herself to swallow; continued. “Someone said that she went to look for her brother. Is that so?”  
  
The man did not have a reply. She could see it written across his face, in the way that his creased brow fell slack, in the way that his lips pressed together and he shook his head an infinitesimal amount. With a flick of her hair, Morgana spun to take in more of the crowd, more of the faces watching her as curiously and warily as the knight that Olaf had left to watch her.  
  
“Tell me, anyone. Is it so?”  
  
“Yes,” burst out a young woman, probably little more than sixteen herself, stepping forwards from the crowd. The young man beside her was gripping her hand so tightly that both of their knuckles were turning white, and they were both ashen. “Thomos, our younger brother. He’s only seven. The favourite of his sheep did not come in tonight, and he was worried. He slipped out to search, and Enid went after him.”  
  
She did not voice her thanks aloud, could not risk the slightest suggestion that she was not in command of them here, but gave a bow of her head which, she could see, the young woman understood. “And so she went north, towards the woods.” A horn, melancholy, rang out over the night, and she knew that it would be from Olaf’s men. “What did you hear, from the beasts?”  
  
“Howling,” said one of the men in the crowd, older, with almost-white hair and piercing eyes. He held Morgana’s gaze more boldly than the others had done. “The baying of hounds, unnaturally loud, unnaturally clear.”  
  
“Horses?” she asked. “Riders?”  
  
“Not before the King and his men drew close.”  
  
A great howl cut through the air, so loud that it seemed the torches wavered, and people cowered where they stood. Morgana turned to look north, where it had come from. “Stand your ground!” she shouted in return, in the aching silence that came after. “As loud as it is, they are moving away! Their cries play tricks.” Another deep breath, and she could feel the slightest tremble in her fingertips, the headiness not of fear, but of standing at the centre of the crowd and balancing them on her words. “Did anyone see them? Anyone at all?”  
  
Murmurs, denials, and she felt a flutter of frustration. If only one person could give her a description, she could think back on what Morgause had told her, the books through which she had searched more recently in search of a cure for Vivian.  
  
Another blast of a horn, and then hoofbeats could be heard in the distance, drawing closer over the ground. Morgana swept towards the side of the circle closest to them, people parting to let her through, as the torches of the knights grew into a patch of light, a swell of figures.  
  
Her heart leapt into her chest as she saw a small figure, bundled in a blue cloak, seated in front of one of the knights, a white shape thrown across the saddle of another. Again, Olaf was at their head, his face seemingly grimmer than ever as he drew nearer, reining in his horse with its wild eyes and nervous steps. Before he even spoke, the woman whose daughter had gone missing darted forward, the older sister following, running to the knight with the child sat in front of him. The knight passed the boy down, for it was a boy with short-cut hair and face glowing white in the darkness. Joint cries of relief and horror went up, and Morgana walked to Olaf’s knee.  
  
“The girl?” she said quietly.  
  
He shook his head, and with a bitter breath she turned her eyes away. “Was there any sign of violence?”  
  
“No, nor that,” Olaf said, matching her tone so that their words were hidden beneath the uproar of people talking about the boy returned to them and the girl still lost. “None until my men set upon them.”  
  
Finally she looked past him, and saw the figures following. One of the men was clutching his arm to his chest, blood seeping around it, whilst another was barely upright in his saddle. Further back, a dark-eyed man kept one hand on the back of the white shape, the white hound, thrown across the pommel of his saddle, as if to hold it in place.  
  
“You have one,” she said, with half a gasp. Olaf merely nodded, looking back at the people, and she realised that by now they would be growing angry, upset, dangerous. Whirling, Morgana drew herself up and walked towards them, and again they parted before her, until only the mother and sister remained, cradling the sleeping boy. Thomos, that was what they had said his name was.  
  
Morgana knelt beside them, and the sister looked up, tears on her cheeks, desperation in her eyes. For a moment she held the girl’s gaze, then turned her attention to the boy. His dark hair stuck in slick streaks to his forehead, and he was icy pale, but he breathed still and seemed uninjured. She rested one hand on his forehead, feeling it wet but of a good temperature, and brushed the hair back out of his eyes.  
  
“He will be well,” she said. “Let him sleep, keep him warm. He will recover quickly.”  
  
His mother gave a sob of relief, hugging him closer to her, but his sister reached out and grabbed Morgana’s wrist like a vice before she could rise to her feet again. “And Enid? What of her?”  
  
“Do not give up hope,” Morgana replied, the words spilling forth before she even put too much thought into them. She could hear the shift of the crowd, the uneasy sound of the horses, feel the eyes upon her. “We will fight for her yet. Look to the west; that is where she shall come from when she returns.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She had sworn it to them. Morgana cursed herself as Olaf’s train returned to the camp, knowing that she had made a promise and, if she wanted any believability to her name, that she would have to keep it. Or at least be seen to try to. Equally, she knew that she had meant it, that she had wanted in that moment to strip the darkness out of the sky and reveal the girl, Enid, to return her to them.  
  
Olaf retired to his tent, but not alone: the creature that they had slain was bought after them, carried swinging by its legs, and flung heavily onto the desk, still leaking red-black blood. Without waiting to be asked, Morgana followed them, brushing past them to stand at the middle and look over the hound.  
  
For hound it most definitely was, as large as the greatest of the hunting dogs she had ever seen answering to Uther’s call; and save for the mud on its paws and lower legs, and the bloody red of its ears, it was bone-white from snout to thin, whippy tail. It was short-haired, with wiry muscles and solid shoulders, powerful just to look at. Its mouth had fallen open, tongue lolling out, and Morgana peered closer to see multiple rows of glistening pointed teeth. She shuddered.  
  
“That’s like no hound I’ve ever seen,” said one of the knights, stepping forward as well with a look of disgust.  
  
Morgana touched its skin lightly, feeling the hardness of muscle, almost expecting it to twitch. The flesh was still warm, hotter than her touch; hot with magic. “The Wild Hunt indeed,” she said. “They come through tears between the worlds, usually on nights when the veil is particularly thin. Something must be sending them through for them to appear as regularly as this.”  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Olaf standing a few paces away, one hand against his chin with his thumb running back and forth across his lip. As she looked towards him, he gave her an almost infinitesimal nod to continue.  
  
“I’ve not seen hounds that look like this before, not in any of the books that I’ve read, or any of the scrolls.” She gently pulled back one of its eyelids, revealing blind white eyes rimmed bloodshot-red. Her fingers actually looked like she had some colour when they lay beside its skin. “But there are stories of them across Albion, under various names. What name do you have for them here?”  
  
Her eyes scanned the knights. Olaf had called some of them by their names during the day, but she had not been listening. They had avoided looking at her then; now, they avoided her gaze as well, green eyes flitting from one to the next in search of an answer.  
  
“You know I am not from Powys,” she continued, letting her voice become a lull, hypnotic. “And you are natives in this land, else you would not be knights of it. You will have heard the stories, at your grandfather’s knee, from your grandmother. Stories of the old days, when magic could be spoken of without fear.”  
  
One of them almost looked at her, before tearing his eyes away. He was ruddy-skinned, with curls of dark hair around his ears and almost skimming his deep eyes. There was a recognition in his eyes, a knowledge, and she latched on to it as she walked around the table towards him.  
  
“You’ve all heard of it. Can you remember the name?”  
  
“The Cŵn Annwn,” he said quietly, the words almost lost in the tense air.  
  
Her magic rippled at the words, and she felt as if her eyes were trying to flare gold but were held back by the tightening straps around her wrists. She could feel the magic of the bonds, old, _ancient_ , could feel her own magic wanting to reach out and join with it. Before she could lose the flow of blood from her hands, however, Morgana pushed her magic aside like swallowing down bile.  
  
“The hounds of _your_ land,” she said, turning now to Olaf and meeting his eyes fearlessly. The creatures might have been of her world, but they were of his land as well, their form most likely tied directly to the area in which they had been summoned. Perhaps in Camelot, in Wessex, in any of the other Kingdoms, they would have taken a different form. “And they are not yet finished.”  
  
She knew it, deep down in her very bones, but the knights were frowning at her. “How can you be sure?” Olaf offered the words that she knew they were all thinking.  
  
“Numbers are important. Seven is unwieldy, too large to use. Eight is a possibility: two times two times two times two. But nine is more likely: three times three. Two is a pair, but three is power. A three-legged stool stands firm on any surface; three can be lucky or unlucky, but is never unpowerful.”  
  
“You think there are two more girls to be taken,” said Olaf.  
  
She nodded, resting her hand on the haunch of the hound beside her. It was beginning to cool now, hardening as if it was turning to stone. She supposed that she should have expected that: no creature of magic would die or rot like one of flesh.  
  
“That will be six more days, then,” he added. “It will bring us up to the full moon.”  
  
“Powerful again. Yes, full moon sounds about right.” Echoes of her dreams rebounded through her head, the moon, the hounds, teeth and blood and silver. “There is some greater spell... this is only feeding into it.”  
  
Olaf was staring intently at her, and she finally looked up to meet his gaze. “You are saying that this is not a chance happening, that they were summoned.”  
  
“I have said that already. What I now find myself wondering,” she had to force herself to breathe before she could even admit the weakness, and the realisation caught her by surprise, “is whether the call draws them into this world... or sends them out of another.”


	9. Chapter 9

Without Morgause’s bracelet to keep them in check, Morgana’s dreams rampaged through her. Snatched images remained in her troubled mind: cold darkness seeping through her; silver teeth ripping through soft bloody flesh; a shapeless form that opened a maw full of jagged bones and lunged towards her.  
  
Stifling a cry in her throat, Morgana jerked awake, scrabbling for a knife that was no longer at her belt. It was still dark outside, but she could see torchlight on the walls of her small tent and knew that she would not manage to sleep properly with the memories of pain still in her mind’s eye. Apparently it was not an option to dream of any of the _good_ things that had yet to happen. It would be reassuring, just occasionally, to know that there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon, but perhaps it was not necessary to send warnings for happy occurrences.  
  
It was not raining, but she knew that the dew would have settled on the ground, and on her tent. She remained slightly stooped to avoid the canvas as she rose to her feet to rearrange her clothes and slip her shoes back on before loosely rolling together her blankets and setting them aside. When she stepped out of the tent, the cold made her give just one hiss of indrawn breath before she gathered herself, faint clouds forming in front of her lips.  
  
Not all of Olaf’s men were stirring yet, but there was a feel of unease in the air that could not have allowed any of them to sleep well. Aeslyn had not accompanied them; in her place was a servant who had some basic knowledge in treating wounds, enough to stabilise the two men who had been injured in the fight last night. Light spilled more brightly from the open flaps of the tent that had been given over to them. Morgana spared a glance, but said nothing, making her way over to the quartermaster’s tent to attempt to eat the bread and smoked herring which was being offered to break their fast.  
  
She had been slightly wrong in her estimate: the sun was just beginning to lighten the sky, though not yet visible beneath the horizon. Slowly, colour crept into the grey world, and light with it. It was possible to suppress most of her shivers.  
  
Surely there had been other dreams. Morgana was sure that she had heard of people saying that they had many dreams in a night, was sure that she had dreamt things when she was younger that had nothing to do with telling the future. There was something visceral, not to mention tiring, about her prophetic dreams.  
  
“Morgana.”  
  
At the sound of her name, she turned from where she had been leaning on one of the trees that surrounded the camp.  
  
“Your Majesty,” she replied. Olaf looked almost as tired as she felt, his skin ashen and coarse in the early sunlight.  
  
He gave a rough laugh. “After you ordered me to ride into battle in front of my knights and lords, and last night reminded me of the legends of my own Kingdom? I think that the formalities are perhaps a little overdone.”  
  
“Reminded? Then you have heard of the Wild Hunt before?”  
  
Olaf folded his arms over his chest, bristling slightly, but nodded. “Many years ago. When thunder in the distance sounded like horses’ hooves, and wind through the trees sounded like the howling of dogs... then old men called it the Wild Hunt.”  
  
“And young men laughed,” said Morgana, “because that is what young men do.”  
  
“All too often, yes.”  
  
This time the silence between them was not so pained. Morgana leant her shoulder back against the rowan tree she stood beside, mostly bare now but for a couple of very late sprays of berries. Her wrists chafed, but she refused to rub them in front of Olaf.  
  
“What do you remember of them, then?”  
  
“Not as much as would be useful, I fear,” said Olaf with a faint grimace. “Even then, they were a story told by grandparents, to stop children from going out in storms. It was said that they could carry off anyone, even the strongest warrior.”  
  
“But _anyone_ has not been taken. Young women have, and girls. That cannot be a thing of chance.” It was like lighting a spark in her mind, and strings of fire began to stream out from it across her thoughts. Young women. Hounds. Dreams from beyond the darkness. “Someone has sent them for particular people...”  
  
“Your Majesty!” Before she could even start to put the words together, one of the knights called out, and Olaf turned smartly. The men were looking haggard as well. “The sun is destroying the hound.”  
  
Morgana and Olaf exchanged a glance that contained a frown, and both followed after the knight back to the centre of the camp. The body of the hound had slowly turned to stone over the course of just a few hours after its death, and had been laid down to the rear of one of the tents, with one of the knights to watch over it. It lay still, greyish and slightly rough-looking, tongue lolling out of its mouth and eyes open just a crack. The sun was starting to crest the horizon and send its light trickling across the grass.  
  
At first glance, it looked no different than when it had been placed there the night before. Olaf stood over the body and looked down at it pointedly.  
  
“Well?” he said after a moment.  
  
One of the knights gently nudged the hound’s hip with the toe of his boot, first in the area that was still shaded, and then in the sunlight. In the shade, nothing happened, but where the sun had touched it, the stone crumbled to dust at the lightest touch.  
  
“Perhaps it is best for this world that there is no flesh to rot,” said Morgana into the silence that followed. “Safer for the people who live here as well.”  
  
Olaf murmured a faint agreement. “Take it into the sunlight,” he told his men, “and make sure that it is completely destroyed. Do not breathe in the dust, if you can.” It was probably not a necessary warning, but Morgana did not comment on it. “I will have the others break camp, and we will return to the citadel.  
  
  
  
  
  
Olaf sent a messenger ahead of the main party to say that they were returning, and to summon his council to chamber. Night was falling by the time that they arrived, and cold and tiredness together made Morgana feel as if she could barely stand as she dismounted in the courtyard. She went straight to the king, however, restraining her shaking.  
  
“How much do you want me to tell your council?”  
  
“Nothing,” replied Olaf curtly, rearranging his cloak around himself as one of the grooms led his horse away. Morgana stared at him in offended horror. “I will tell them what we need to know, and say that it was told to us by a member of the village who remembers the Old Religion. I will not implicate you in this.”  
  
“Implicate me! As if they will think I summoned them?”  
  
“As if they will think you have been practicing magic in Powys.” He began to walk across the courtyard, towards the grand steps and the main doors. “As far as they are concerned, you are only allowed in this Kingdom so long as you are not practicing magic. Do so, and it breaches our laws. Besides,” stopping abruptly, he threw out one arm to stop her from re-entering the citadel. It drew her up short, anger driving out the cold now. “I would imagine that they would take the news better from King Olaf than from Morgana Pendragon.”  
  
For once, a reasonable explanation for her silence. “I understand.”  
  
“Thank you.” The arm was withdrawn from across her chest. “Now go, rest. If the pattern holds, we have two more days until the next attack will come. I will set one of my scholars to finding what they can in books, and I will have someone discreetly ask after those who might remember the Old Religion, and even these hounds. I want you to return to thinking of Vivian.”  
  
“Vivian?” Again, his words managed to catch her off-guard, and she turned with a look of shock. After the danger that they had seen, with the limited time that they had to fight it, he still expected her to return to the books and Vivian’s obsession?  
  
He did not explain, simply gave her a look that was part way between anger and pity, and turned to leave. It left her feeling strangely alone again, as if the knights and the servants in the courtyard were a world away and she was watching them through a tear in a veil. Wrapping her arms around herself and pretending that it was to hold her cloak tightly in place, Morgana made her way back to her chambers. She sat beside the fire for a while, watching the world grow darker and constrict itself around her, before finally attempting to sleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
She almost slept through the night. Darkness and rainbow flames surrounded her, but compared to what she had seen and done, they were not frightening. It was not until the flames wrapped into the form of a face, an unearthly screaming coming from it, that she was thrown awake with a cry of her own.  
  
The sun was risen, though muffled by clouds. Morgana wiped sleep and moisture from the corners of her eyes and wrapped her covers more tightly around her, not sure how she could still feel cold. Her fingers traced her wrist, still raw from being bound and bare without Morgause’s bracelet, and not for the first time she wished that she could roll back the years and wake up with Gwen shaking her shoulder and smiling over her.  
  
A foolish thing, and the sort of dream that would not come true. She let it fall aside as one of the maids entered with breakfast, helped her to dress, and then left her to her own devices. Olaf did not call for her in the morning, or the afternoon, and the books she had been given were to do with the magic that humans wrought upon each other, not upon the wider powers of the world in which they walked.  
  
As evening approached, she wrote out a short message to send to Olaf. It was meant to get his attention, she had no delusions about that: a request to try another route for lifting Vivian’s enchantment, a cleansing ritual. She assumed that he would want to talk to her about it, but instead a note sealed with wax was delivered to her less than an hour later.  
  
 _As long as you are following the same path as safety as last time, then I trust you. Do as you will._  
  
She glanced over her shoulder, expecting a guard or at least a servant to have lingered to be Olaf’s eyes, but there was no-one there. Her candles guttered. It felt as if there was a pressure on her chest, but it was not so much a weight as a sensation of being held very tightly, and Morgana was certain that she had felt it before. Years ago. She remembered when Gwen had spoken to her, when Arthur had sniped with her, when Uther had loved her and she had trusted him. If the message had been only half its length, Morgana knew, she would have thought it a dismissal and felt anger where now an ache that she did not want to name filled her chest. It was not until she thought again of the white bands now encircling her wrist, holding back the magic which had made her realise what had been hidden from her for so long, that she managed to raise some semblance of herself once again.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next day, there was still no further word from Olaf. From her window, Morgana could see small groups of the knights on the training field or patrolling and holding heated discussions inside the courtyard, could watch as the fires in the watchtowers along the walls were dragged out and rebuilt. Once, she had helped Arthur to make preparations like this in Camelot.  
  
Camelot had haunted her dreams that night, Arthur as King and Guinevere – not Gwen, not now – as Queen, the shadow of Emrys standing over them seemingly without their even being aware of him. She saw the shadow of a gold dragon spreading across Albion, and wondered what that could mean for rulers like Olaf, Mithian, Godwyn, Annis. If Arthur was to spread the boundaries of Camelot, they would have to come from somewhere. Yet she could feel the strings of magic that reached to him from the future, knew that fate was as inescapable for him as it was for others.  
  
She dreamt of her death again, and even on waking cursed Emrys into the worst fires that the Old Religion or the New could have summoned. Her words sounded impotent and childish on the air.  
  
Once again, Aeslyn helped her to procure the things which she needed. They were simpler this time: white candles, sage and a silver cup, although Aeslyn was very uneasy about handing over the cup itself. Only once Morgana promised that it would not leave Vivian’s room did she assent.  
  
“You don’t normally come in the evening,” said Vivian, looking at Morgana critically. She was working at a drawing in hardened, brittle charcoal, all tight lines. Morgana tried not to look too closely at it, unless it started to look a little like Arthur. “What do you want?”  
  
“I came to apologise, myself, for... what happened.” It took work to think of the moment in which she had spoken about Arthur and Gwen’s marriage, rather than Vivian’s violent response. “I offer my services as your maid for the evening, to make amends.”  
  
Vivian paused for a moment to consider, then put aside her charcoal and wiped her hands delicately on a white cloth. “If you feel that it is necessary,” she replied, sounding almost as if it was an acquiescence. Morgana could remember a time when she would have kicked Vivian in the shins for such a tone, but now it gave her an odd flicker of hope that the girl she had once known was in there still.  
  
“Your usual maid suggested that you might enjoy a bath this evening,” Morgana pressed gently. Vivian wrinkled her nose, then gave a nod and a faint wave, and turned back to what she was doing. Her fingers traced the paper tenderly, and Morgana could not watch the movement.  
  
She truly had already spoken to Vivian’s maid, but it was to discover how it was possible to even get water up to the top of the tower. The girl, Celia, had showed her how to work the pulley system that had been set up, and had seen to it that the fire was lit to heat the water. Even with the pulleys to ease the work, however, she was breathing heavily and sweating hard by the time that the bath was mostly-full and had steam coiling up from it.  
  
She lit white candles and set them around the edge of the bath, glancing over to see that Vivian was now reading an old book, leather-bound and worn. Or perhaps ‘reading’ was the wrong word when she did not seem to turn the pages. No comment was made, however, and Morgana continued her work, throwing handfuls of sage onto the fire to give an edge of its sweetly pungent smell to the room. She set the silver cup down to one side of the bath, just out of sight.  
  
“Vivian,” she said, as she straightened up again. They had never used titles with each other. “Your bath is ready.”  
  
Something had gone from Vivian’s eyes by then, the haughtiness of her gaze lacking something that had once been there. She stood almost mildly before Morgana at the side of her bath, allowing herself to be undressed, not reacting as her skin prickled with goosebumps.  
  
“Are you all right?” murmured Morgana. Her fingers were resting gently on Vivian’s bare shoulders, just about to slip the chemise away.  
  
“Yes,” replied Vivian. Her voice was a little too thick, the response a little too fast. “Of course.”  
  
There were many things that it could have been, but Morgana had a feeling that too many of them were due to the enchantment that Vivian was under for her to want to hear of them. Instead she let the words drift into the air admit candlelight and soft smoke, and helped Vivian out of her chemise and into the hot water of the bath. She drew in a breath, skin flushing red, but then sighed and closed her eyes as she slipped up to her shoulders in the water.  
  
Morgana drew up a low wooden stool at the side of the bath, risking a glance at Vivian’s face. The princess was staring towards the ceiling, expression distant and a little glazed, but her hands were wrapped tightly around the edge of the bath.  
  
“It helps sometimes,” she said, soft and unprompted, as Morgana was reaching for the hairbrush beside them. “To let the water wash things away.”  
  
She sat upright again, water rolling down her skin. Half of her hair had been wetted, and clung to her skin, but the rest was still in curls around her face. Morgana could still not get used to the higher cheekbones, the thinner wrists, of the young woman she had known. Vivian’s arms curled around her knees as she hugged them to her chest, but she did not protest when Morgana reached out to smoothe water over the rest of her hair.  
  
“It can seem that way,” Morgana admitted. “Water is easier to understand than humans are.”  
  
Vivian gave a brittle laugh which sounded so unlike her that Morgana’s hands shook for a moment. She steadied them and picked up the silver cup to pour more warm water over Vivian’s shoulders.  
  
“I suppose so. Morgana...” she tilted her head back to let water stream over it, half-closing her eyes. There was a slight crease between her brows, which Morgana felt an urge to reach out and smooth away. “Do you think that love really is as powerful as magic?”  
  
For a moment, Morgana’s hands fell still, combing through the blonde hair before her. “I think it is just as complicated, certainly.”  
  
Vivian looked very pale in the candlelight, with not even the faintest of lines around her neck to suggest that she had been out in the sun. Her shoulders were high and tense, and Morgana let her hands slide lower, massaging gently. It hardly made an impression on the tight muscles.  
  
“Your many types of love,” said Vivian. “You were right... maybe there are not words enough to explain love. It is... so much. I did not expect it to be.”  
  
Morgana fought not to breathe faster, or to lean closer, as she let her hands keep working Vivian’s shoulders, oil shining on her skin. It made the beads of water roll off faster. Her magic wanted to arc out from beneath her skin, sink into Vivian’s and heal at least the physical pain that gripped her, but she could already feel the ghost of tightness on her wrists. She never quite forgot the bonds on her wrists; their pressure never went away, as long as she had magic beneath her skin.  
  
“Sometimes I try to think of other things, to distract myself from... from him.” Her voice trembled, and must have refused to speak the name. “It doesn’t seem to work very well.”  
  
“Perhaps you can relax into the water for a while,” said Morgana, surprised to find her throat dry and her voice faint. She cleared her throat. “Let it soak things away. And try to get some sleep tonight.”  
  
“Then what of tomorrow?” Vivian’s voice wobbled outright this time, and her hands released her grip on her knees only to wrap around the edge of the bath again. “And the day after? And every day after that?”  
  
“Don’t,” said Morgana. She knew what it was like, to wake each morning and know – or fear – that this day would be no different than the one before. She was not sure whether she honestly thought it would be better for Vivian to not think of it, or whether she did not want to face it herself. “Do not think of eternity at once, just of the next day. Come on, lie down.”  
  
She gently guided Vivian to lean back again, dipping her hair entirely beneath the water. It swirled around her like captured sunlight, pale gold in the darkness. Vivian’s entire body was ghostly pale, and Morgana found her eyes moving over it before, with a blush, she drew her attention and gaze back to Vivian’s face. Luckily, it seemed to have passed unnoticed.  
  
“My father used to sing me a lullaby,” she said. It was a lie, but felt enough like the truth that she did not regret saying it. Gorlois had sung lullabies to her when she was young, when he was around and between campaigns. They had lingered with her for many years. This, however, was not one of those lullabies. A spell that read like a song; the fingers of one hand gently rubbed Vivian’s scalp as, with the other, she used the silver cup to pour more water over her body. Silver for clean, silver for cleansing.  
  
“Stillē mīn wōgeres,  
Se mōna biþ lihtan,  
Rīce, ic ābiddee,  
Ābȳwe mīn heortan.”*  
  
Vivian’s lips moved faintly in time with the words. The tune was easy, floating, though her throat almost constricted on the last words, her magic twisting like a fish in a trap as it tried to connect with the spell that she spoke.  
  
“I like it,” Vivian murmured. Her eyes were closed, but Morgana felt a tingling in the skin beneath her touch. There were few to no royal families that did not have some flicker of magic in them, some old strain long-dormant. With the trappings of magic around her, she was hoping that the one in the line of Powys would come to the forefront.  
  
When Morgana sang it the second time, Vivian hummed along, lips tracing some of the words. The third time, she sank, quietly but true.  
  
Gold glittered through her eyelashes as she sang, and then she gave a strangled choke and shot upright, grasping at her throat. A whine came from her throat and her face flushed, her body jerking as she tried to breathe.  
  
“No!” Morgana stumbled to her feet, dropping the silver cup into the water and scrambling to Vivian’s side instead. She pushed hair back off Vivian’s face, cupped her cheeks and tried to get her to turn her head round. “Vivian. Vivian, look at me. It’s okay. Come on.”  
  
She managed to drag in a breath, then a second. Morgana hooked her hands underneath Vivian’s armpits and pulled her upright, water sloughing off her and splashing on the floor. The candles had guttered out around them, and the smell of sage was starting to get bitter on the air.  
  
“Vivian,” said Morgana, more sharply this time. Vivian stumbled out of the bath and into her, boneless and shaking, breath heaving in her chest. “Calm down and get control of yourself immediately.”  
  
Somehow, more than anything else that she had said, this made Vivian look up and focus her eyes on Morgana. “My throat,” she managed to squeeze out.  
  
“It must be something in one of the oils,” said Morgana. This time, the words did taste like a lie in her mouth, but she told herself that they were for Vivian’s good and that, should she ever lift the spell, she would apologise for everything that she had done. One of Vivian’s robes was nearby, and she managed to struggle into it and sit down on the bed whilst Morgana called for one of the maids to make sure that every drop of the bathwater was moved well away. “I did not expect this to happen.”  
  
Vivian was shivering, but it was cold more than anything else, and as she wrapped her robe around her and sat close to her warming pan that seemed to be fading as well. “So many unexpected things,” she said. “My world has turned so unexpected in these recent years.”  
  
“That makes two of us.”  
  
  
  
  
  
She coaxed Vivian into bed, smoothed the coverlet into place over her, and let the fire burn low but lit a candle at the side of the bed. To her surprise, Vivian fell asleep very quickly, her face turned towards the pillow as if to shield her eyes from the outside world. Her words still rung in Morgana’s mind: these last years, turned so unexpected.  
  
Four years ago, things had been so simple. Morgana le Fey had been the Ward of King Uther Pendragon, set to inherit her father’s lands when she turned twenty-one and hand them over, in turn, to the man that she married. Probably a knight, or at least a man loyal to Arthur, her brother, the future King. Vivian ferch Olaf of Powys was to inherit her Kingdom in her own right, although doubtless her husband would expect her to share at least some of her power with him. He would have to be a brave man indeed to have met with Olaf’s expectations.  
  
Then Morgana’s dreams had overcome Gaius’s sleeping medicine, and magic had crept back into her life. Its strike against Vivian had been sharp; the one which had made Morgana fall had been more insidious, serpentine, eating away at her until nothing but a husk remained of what she had once been. She missed some parts of her former self, though not many. She certainly found herself missing Vivian, who for all of her arrogance had been intelligent, honest, and fast preparing for her role as Queen.  
  
They had been close to each other’s equals, and had fought like cats until they realised the fact. After that, the fighting had been a little more genial. Vivian had actually said once that she wanted to reconsider the ban on magic when she became Queen, and generally to look at the ‘assumptions’ – the word was tart on her tongue – that her forefathers had made. It would have been unthinkable for Morgana to admit that she actually respected that idea.  
  
The moon was high by the time that Morgana returned to her own chambers, taunting her in silver through her leaded window. She could almost see it creeping to fullness, its circle becoming perfect and unending.  
  
“We are not yours yet,” she muttered, and realised only once she was half-asleep that she was speaking for humans, and against fate. Had she been any more awake, she would have rolled her eyes at herself.  
   
  
  
*Rest my love/ The moon is alight/ Powers I ask [you]/ Cleanse my heart.


	10. Chapter 10

It was when she awoke with pain in her chest and claws slashing through her throat she knew the final girl would be taken from the citadel. Five days had passed since they had returned to it, four since she had attempted again to lift Vivian’s spell, and three since Olaf and his men had ridden eastwards with grim determination in their eyes.  
  
They came back with no more bodies of hounds, but one of their dead men on a makeshift bier. Morgana had watched the pyre burn as sun set, and clenched her fists so hard that she thought she might have drawn blood from her skin.  
  
She all but ran from her chambers to find Olaf, who seemed to never be sleeping in recent days, and tell him what she had dreamt. He had not known, it seemed, that her dreams would not also be suppressed by the bracelets he had used to bind her.  
  
“Prophecy and magic are different things,” she explained. “They take different paths in the world.”  
  
He frowned, but nodded in acquiescence, and took her at her word in the coming days. The last young woman taken had been only nineteen, and snatched from inside the very house where her family had tried to hide her. As far as possible, all of the young women and girls of the citadel were sent home away to their families, or were bought inside to be guarded by as many of Olaf’s men as could be gathered.  
  
“Would Arthur come?” he asked suddenly, on the morning of their last day. They knew that barely twelve hours remained until sunset. “If we were to call, would Camelot answer?”  
  
The best knights in the Five Kingdoms. Of course, she had always called them that, but now they were something more altogether. Morgana could feel the strands of fate weaving into the men that surrounded Arthur each time that she thought of them, feel them becoming something altogether _more_ than they could know.  
  
“Arthur protects his own Kingdom,” she replied, though she remembered riding to Ealdor at his side. “His thoughts are of his borders.”  
  
She knew that one day those borders would spread, but that time had not come yet. More years, a while longer; fate did not worry about such little scraps of time.  
  
“It would be too late anyway,” said Olaf, as if it was an afterthought. She did not question him further on the matter.  
  
  
  
  
  
The moon was full over the citadel as the night wrapped itself around them. Magic lay thick in the air, so dense that it seemed to have forced the clouds out of the sky, so that with every breath Morgana could feel it being drawn into her lungs. Feeling magic against her made her almost want to weep, but it was wrong, suffocating, forcing its way into her. She knew as well that she was not the only one who could feel it; the knights and guards around the citadel moved tensely, hands at their sword pommels, eyes trained on the horizon.  
  
She was walking the parapets alongside them, watching the same land and feeling the same sharp winds. Uther had finally bowed to a request to find her black clothing to wear, and though it was a dress rather than a robe she was relieved by how much better she felt wearing it. Grounded, tied in place; were it not for the ties now itching on her wrists she might have felt right again.  
  
The men were a little frightened of her. She didn’t particularly care for the fact, but it was better than antipathy, better than the way they had treated her before. Olaf listened to her words and questioned only in order to seek more information, not in challenge. She knew that she was treating him differently as well. As confidently as she had ever addressed Uther or Arthur, but with the respect that one reserves for people not part of one’s family. Earned, rather than expected. It had been a long time since she had felt able to address someone in such a way.  
  
The sound of baying shattered across them, so loud that it seemed to make the stones of the citadel shudder. “Hold!” Olaf called. “They are a way off yet!”  
  
Her hands rubbed at her wrists nervously, plucking at the bands, still shining white despite the grime which she had expected to see gather on them. Morgana looked towards the east, not sure what she was expecting to see, wondering whether the shimmer that she saw on the horizon, spectral as a heat haze, was real or imagined.  
  
“They’re coming,” she called to Olaf. He looked round, caught her eye, and nodded.  
  
“Men, with me.”  
  
Despite the stories that had been told of the hounds, they seemed to be only faster, stronger than their earthly counterparts – not capable of different things altogether. A few of the guards remained on the ramparts, but the knights followed Olaf, down to the courtyard, then to the wide ground outside the castle walls. Usually there would be animals grazing here, watched by shepherds, but they had been called in for the night and only cold clear air met them. Not even a fog gave them shadow.  
  
Morgana followed as well, though without her magic and with no sword she was not sure what she could do. Turning, she let her eyes scan over the castle walls, the citadel crowning the motte in the centre of them. Fires and candles lit up the windows like eyes in the darkness, all-seeing, watchful over the land. Her eyes trailed up, to Vivian’s tower highest of them all, and saw the light there as well. Whether Vivian was still thinking of Arthur, or had realised the danger in her land, she was still awake.  
  
Her attention moved back to the battlefield as a couple of the knights started, drawing their swords. A flicker of white on the horizon, nothing more, but Morgana felt her heart rise into her throat all the same. Olaf did not pause, but drew his sword as well, prompting the rest of them to follow suit. Morgana clenched her fists in impotent anger.  
  
She had asked for a weapon. Olaf had hesitated, just once, before turning her down. She supposed that she was a danger still, if a lesser one than the hounds.  
  
Another howl; loud, almost deafening, but not shaking the very world around them. The knights fanned out, watching, and Morgana stepped back behind them and wished for steel or magic in her hands. More flashes of white moved among the trees, and then a fog began to creep up from the ground, so thick that she could barely see the silhouettes of the men around her. Past her ankles, her knees, moving upwards until it swallowed them whole and muted the light that spilled down from the walls.  
  
“My Lord,” one of the knights called out, his voice so firm that it felt forced to Morgana. “Should we withdraw into the courtyard?”  
  
“No, stand firm!” Olaf replied. “They are but animals, and we know they can fall to our swords. Hold your ground.”  
  
This time, it was not a baying but a growl that rattled through the air, with a metallic edge to the sound. Morgana felt the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end as one of the knights called, “Beasts, ho!” with just the slightest touch of panic in his voice.  
  
She heard the sound of metal meeting with flesh, the snarling of a hound, louder than any dog she had ever heard. The loud breathing of the knights, then more sounds of fighting, grunts and cries of pain, growls and snarls. It surrounded her, ate through to her, but none of the Cŵn stepped near.  
  
Wood crashed behind her. Morgana whirled where she stood, raising her hand and feeling the words of the Old Tongue come to her lips to force the fog from the sky. They choked themselves in her throat, and the bonds around her wrists clenched until it felt like her bones were clicking together, and instead she started running.  
  
“Olaf!” she called. “They have broken in!”  
  
“Fall back to the courtyard!” Olaf called, his voice muffled in the fog but audible still. Curses intermingled with the sound of moving men as the knights drew back, and Morgana snatched a torch from the wall to hold like a club in both hands. Within the walls, the fog thinned so fast that it seemed to form a wall through which they stumbled. One of the knights had blood on his sword, blood smeared across his face, teeth gritted in the grimace of blood-thrill.  
  
The white hounds bounded after them, lunging out of the fog as if they were solidifying out of it. One of them came within an arm’s length of Morgana; she swung the torch hard, striking the beast’s shoulder in an explosion of sparks. It yelped, knocked from mid-air onto its side on the ground, and rolled to try and scramble to its feet in the same instant that she struck it again, this time in the face. Fire flashed in her vision. She drew her arm back a third time, but then there was a blue cloak beside her, a knight’s sword plunging into the creature’s belly and ripping it open. The skin tore open like paper, flesh cleaving, but no entrails spilled out onto the air.  
  
“Thank you,” she said in a breath, catching the knight’s gaze. He nodded, stoic, mind clearly still set for battle, and moved on to another.  
  
A spark of silver on the ground caught her eye, and she stooped to grab it from among the cobblestones. It was a knife, not long and not ornate, but a better fit in her right hand than the torch had been.  
  
Another of the Cŵn came out of the darkness in front of her, but this one turned its steps aside and veered beyond her reach. Its eyes did not even flicker, not turning for an instant to look at her even as she stared and realisation blossomed in her mind.  
  
At first, the girls and young women taken had seemed random. The easiest targets. But magic had deeper ways to work, more powerful threads that it could wrap around people.  
  
They were not random. They were chosen.  
  
The Cŵn Annwn had a target, already chosen from within the castle walls. If not, there was nothing to stop them from finding any suitable girl along the east-west path which they had been following. A glance around at the knights confirmed the thoughts that tumbled in her mind: until one of the knights attacked the hounds, the hounds paid no attention to them.  
  
The target. Where was the target?  
  
Castles were not just the homes of the royal family, not really. There were servants: maids and footmen and cooks; physicians or healers who were not servants in the strictest sense; visiting lords or noblemen; even people from beyond the kingdom. Hundreds of people were within the castle walls, hundreds of _women_ , and she did not know which one the hounds were coming for.  
  
Magic filled the air like a silent thunderclap, and Morgana felt such a weakness run through her that she almost fell to her knees. She wanted to be part of the magic, so much that it ached in her chest. It took all of her strength to pull herself together again and search for what the magic had done.  
  
The darkness itself held the answer. The full moon painted the world in faint silver and grey tones, draining it of colour. Not only had the torch in her hands gone out: the fires in the windows, the bonfires on the walls, had winked out like candles doused instantly in water. Their after-shadows danced like ghosts in her vision.  
  
“Morgana!” Olaf’s voice, warning, cut through the darkness. She could just about pick him out from among his men, his bearing and the crest on his cloak declaring his presence. “The hounds still?”  
  
“No – their master.”  
  
She did not recognise the magic around them. The magic of each sorcerer, witch, or any other magic user had a ring to it, not as fine as a fingerprint, but marked. Sorcerers were rich and dark, like blood-red velvet; Druids were mellow and whole; Morgause had been sharp but strong; Emrys was as black as night and just as deep. The magic she felt now against her skin and in her veins felt old, as cold and hard as stone, solid as ice. It felt worse than Emrys, inhuman; some creature of the Old Magic.  
  
There was no time to think, and she had no power with which to fight it. A slam echoed through the courtyard, heavy wooden doors thrown open with the strength of many men, booming against their stone settings. Morgana turned to the main gates of the castle to see a figure, a wisp of ivory-white against the darkness, and she felt her heart leap into her mouth as she realised that it was Vivian.  
  
“No...”  
  
She ran, instinctively, hold tightening on the knife as her breath burned in her throat and her heart pounded in her chest. Somehow it made perfect sense, the girl with magic already binding her, come to be claimed by magic all over again. Vivian stood at the top of the steps, expression invisible from this distance, arms slightly raised on either side of her. The hounds turned towards Vivian, five of them still standing despite the knights that had cut through their ranks, their four feet faster than Morgana’s two, she faster still than the armoured, fight-wearied knights behind her.  
  
“Vivian!” It was not Morgana; her breath was given to running. Olaf called out to his daughter, voice laced with a terrible desperation. It was the father calling, not the king, and as he called again his voice cracked and fear showed through. “Vivian!”  
  
The shadows of the hounds, shapeless on the cobbles, drew together and became one form. They flowed up into a figure, human or near enough to it, a great black knight with flickering horrors in his armour and fingers that reached out like a creeping sunset. Vivian looked at him mildly; now Morgana was closer she could see her glazed eyes as the Cŵn Annwn surrounded her, now fallen quiet with rasping breath and clicking nails on the ground.  
  
The knight reached out his hand, palm upwards. Dark dust swirled in the palm like a gathering stormcloud. Vivian’s arm began to rise as well, hand trembling, moving slowly, slowly towards him.  
  
“No!” Morgana shouted.  
  
Her voice echoed back off the stone walls, seeming to come from everywhere at once. The knight did not move, but Vivian paused, the slightest twitch downwards at the corner of one lip.  
  
“Take me instead!” No sooner than the words had left Morgana's mouth, the knight was facing her, arm outstretched, so fast he did not seem to have moved between the two. Beneath the line of his helm were eyes like the pinpoints of stars, burning blue-cold as he stared at her. “You want a sacrifice. Take me!”  
  
The open palm in front of her clenched into a fist, and she felt as if iron bands, tighter than any corset, had wrapped around her waist and were crushing the breath from her lungs. He drew his hand towards his chest, and she was dragged, still standing, across the ground, small stray stones thrown up from beneath her feet. In an instant she had crossed the last sixty feet and was standing before him, barely a foot separating them. Horror radiated from him, and from this close she could see his eyes, like huge explosions a universe away, terrible with power.  
  
“You sacrifice yourself.”  
  
His voice sounded like grating stone. Faintly, Morgana was aware that someone was calling her name behind her, that there were still footsteps, still running.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A flash of his eyes took her in. “Very well.”  
  
Darkness began to swirl around his feet, opening up deeper than the night and painful to look at. Morgana felt the bonds on her wrists tightening, tightening, feeling like they were going to cut into her skin. Ice pressed against her back, pushing her into the knight’s chest, and as the cold swept forward through her felt fear seep in with it.  
  
Her tongue froze in her throat, held secure as much as were her arms to her sides, her body against the knight’s. Wide-eyed, feeling death reach out for her again – she recognised it, had looked into it before – she looked at the men before her, the knights with drawn swords, Olaf. Too far away as the dark started to flash up in streaks around her, cutting out the world first with bars, fast becoming walls.  
  
Through the last gap in the world, the last narrow band that she could see, she looked straight at Olaf. He had dropped his sword to the ground, pulled his glove away, and as she watched he ripped the white band from his wrist. In the same moment, the ones at hers were pulled away, and she felt hot magic hit back against the cold which was consuming her, but then the world went finally black, and she was sucked down into nothingness.


	11. Chapter 11

Her consciousness crawled back, slowly, inching up her body like an advancing wave of crushing pain. Morgana had to grit her teeth against it just to avoid passing out again, breathing deep until the worst of the pain passed. She did not move from where she lay, sprawled face-down on the floor with grit pressing into her cheek, whistling air the only sound that broke the silence above her. It had been like this when her dreams had first been allowed free rein, when her magic had first ripped through her; Morgause had held her then, until the worst pain passed, but there was no-one now.  
  
The thoughts of Morgause were more painful even than usual. Morgana opened her eyes, not knowing what to expect, and therefore unable to be surprised by what she saw. The ruins of an ancient stone building surrounded her, circular as far as she could see, open to what should have been the sky and with large portions having crumbled away. It should not have stood, but then again all that seemed to lie beyond it was a swirling waste, grey streaks screaming through a black beyond ink or night, faint figures that tugged at her memory appearing and disappearing with faint cries.  
  
The Dorocha. That was what it sounded like. Morgana felt as if the air froze in her lungs at the realisation, but no, _no_ , they were beyond the walls and could not reach her here.  
  
Forcing the thoughts from her mind, she planted her palms on the ground, pushing herself up. It felt as if a great weight had settled between her shoulder blades, trying to push her back to the floor once again. The grit cut into her hands, sharp as fragments of glass, and she gave a gasp as she drew upright, looking in horror at her palms. Blood trickled down them, running over her wrists, the stones glinting in her hands.  
  
She tore her eyes away, looking around as a fearful grinding sound surrounded her, the stones shifting and moving. They drew together, forming pillars several feet in diameter that spread out around the room, then unfolded like opening scrolls. In almost every one, a figure: standing upright and bound to the stones behind them, bodies slack and heads lolling on their shoulders. Each was a woman, or a girl, many of their dresses muddied and torn around the hem, their hands tied together between their breasts.  
  
One stood empty, with snaking silver ropes lying against the stones. Morgana realised that they were meant for her, and backed away a few steps, fear making her breathe faster. The ground beneath her was flat, grit scraping against the bottom of her boots but offering no more resistance than the cool air that surrounded her.  
  
“ _Ah_ ,” breathed a voice behind her, and something shaped like hands but far stronger wrapped around her upper arms. “ _Cmb_.”  
  
A scream left her lips as she was lifted from the ground, high and wild; the hold on her was unimaginably tight, so painful that it felt as if her arms were being crushed into her ribs. She kicked out, but her feet found nothing against which to strike. Another scream, this one angrier and more deliberate, as she tossed her head and tried to see what held her only to find there was nothing to be seen either.  
  
“No!”  
  
Magic exploded in her chest, ripped through her like skin being torn from her body, and erupted into the air. The grip on her arms released, and she was thrown away from the invisible force, slamming into the ground hard enough for stars to flash in front of her eyes. She scrambled to her feet again as _something_ moved across the floor behind her, something that was no more than a disturbance in the air, a human-sized shape which moved too smoothly to be anything like a human.  
  
“ _Dewines_ ,” came the voice, sounding now like multiple voices laid one over the other, not quite perfect in their timing. Morgana did not know the words, but she could feel the dripping hatred in them, the same as she had heard fall from Uther’s lips when he had spoken of magic users.  
  
“I am,” she replied, “the High Priestess.”  
  
She thrust her hand in front of her, magic pounding through her; she had forgotten how alive it made her feel, as if she had awoken from a refreshing sleep for the first time in years. Each breath seemed to fill her up from her toes to her hair, each heartbeat span blood throughout her body with ease. The magic pulsed out from her through her hand, a shockwave that should have thrown back anything with which it met, but it rippled like a wave over the figure, revealing for the first time a true human outline. Human... but _wrong_ , as if each inch had been taken from a different person and then haphazardly stitched together in an attempt to make a whole. Nothing was quite symmetrical about the figure, nothing quite smooth enough to be real.  
  
The figure swept its hand in return, almost lazily, like swatting away a fly. Morgana felt the wave of magic hit her in the chest harder than any punch would be able to, tossing her back through the air and slamming her against one of the stone outcrops. She felt something crack in her chest as she slid to the ground, gasping for air only to taste dirt on her tongue, coughing as it cloyed in her throat.  
  
Laughter rippled around her. Now it sounded more like her own laugh, like her own voice. Morgana stumbled to her feet again, gripping the stone for support as pain stabbed across her chest, teeth gritted and eyes flashing. With every second the figure was becoming more human in form, its outline becoming skin which started off grey and slowly swelled in colour, flushing pink with blood and brown with sunlight; hair tumbled down from the scalp, an indistinct mash of colours that shifted giddily; features appeared in the face, still with that unbalanced look, one eye larger than the other, lips crooked, skin all patches and gradients.  
  
“ _Dewines ai peidio,”_ the figure said. “ _Rwyt ti’n yn eiddo ifi._ ”  
  
The words were slimy and crawling on the air, and made the hairs on the back of Morgana’s neck stand on end. Still she did not understand them, but she could guess enough to know that she did not like them. Again she punched out with her magic, this time using both hands and fuelled with a touch of fear alongside her anger, and this time the figure staggered back at the blow, but still it did not do as it should.  
  
Again, the laughter. It hurt almost more than the physical pain, and she was about to shout defiance again when, with a second sweep of its hand, the figure threw her back into the stonework. She struck her head, saw stars and felt nausea rise in her throat, but was ready to fall to the ground again when she felt ropes lashing around her waist, her shoulders, her legs, wrapping around her hands and drawing them together in front of her chest. With an incoherent shout of anger, she fought against them, but they wrapped so painfully tight that she could barely breathe, pinned back against the wall.  
  
The figure stood before her; it looked like a woman, but still like a dozen people standing in the same place and blurred together. Its hair was white and black and blonde and brown and red, all rod-straight and unnatural; brown and blue and grey fought in its eyes to be viewed. A dozen different colours shaded across its skin, brown and black and gold and pink-white. It was as if someone had tried to describe humans, and not quite got the message across.  
  
It wrapped one hand around her chin, fingers so hard that they felt like metal, as hot as glowing coals, though they did not sear her flesh. The other reached up, slipped over her nose and mouth, and then pulled away and it felt like something _dragged_ from within her, as if she had been holding her breath underwater for too long and the pressure was too great to bear. She fought not to breathe out, just because she knew that it wanted her to, feeling her face redden and her fingers and toes curl with the effort as her throat began to burn. Finally, Morgana could hold back no longer, and let out the air from her lungs in a great sigh of relief.  
  
Red smoke curled from her lips, almost solid on the air. Long, thin fingers closed around it, and the shadow gave a smile that had the feel of a grimace as it drew away, chuckling in that unsettling imitation of Morgana’s voice.  
  
A circle fell away from the floor of the room, fine trickles of grit falling after it, sinking into the same terrible inky blackness that swirled around the walls. In its place rose a cauldron, unshining black with three stout legs and three thick handles, white light shimmering and boiling within it. It rose to just higher than the ground surface, fat-bellied and large enough that a person could stand or even sit within.  
  
The figure carried over her handful of red smoke, which writhed within her grasp as if it was a living animal trying to escape. She released it like a butterfly at the cauldron’s base, and in the same instant other flames erupted beside it, in other colours, making a circle of ever-changing coloured flame that danced and sparkled. The cauldron began to boil more furiously, the black of its sides becoming glossy, as if sweat poured from its skin. The figure gave a triumphant howl of laughter, throwing back her head, then turned and in less than a heartbeat stood before Morgana again.  
  
“ _A wrth gwrs..._ ” This time there was no hold on her chin, but lips pressed against hers. Unlike the hands, they were cold, like stone in winter, unyielding. Morgana closed her eyes and tried to jerk away, but she was pressed too tightly to the stone and could not resist as a tongue forced its way between her lips and then...  
  
The figure inhaled, as if she was breathing in Morgana’s air, and with a final defiant flare Morgana let her magic burst forth, all over her body this time, blasting out from every inch of skin into the surrounding air. The stones behind her crumbled; the ropes around her arms dissolved to ash; the figure was thrown away and crumpled to the floor as any struck with magic normally would. As Morgana, too, fell, the world coiled black, and for a moment she thought that her magic had destroyed the very light in this place, but then the reflections of coloured flames danced in her vision and she heard a heavy, beastlike growl of anger.  
  
“ _Sorceress child_ ,” the voice sneered, and now it was her voice but repeated poorly, like tin imitating silver. The figure’s hair began to darken, its skin to pale, amorphous robes forming a dress-like shape, as if it was trying to imitate her in looks as well. “How fitting that your breath should be the ninth to light my cauldron, to let me return.”  
  
Somewhere, she had heard of a cauldron. Deep in the history of magic, in Morgause’s words. Morgana fought for the memory as she watched the woman coalesce.  
  
“I sent my hounds to find me maidens; I did not expect them to bring me a sorceress.” Slowly, she glided back, more smoothly than walking, towards the cauldron. “Perhaps you will make me stronger. Let us see.”  
  
Her hand closed around the cauldron’s rim, and from somewhere the knowledge burst forth, spilling onto Morgana’s tongue. “Mallt!” She cried. The woman looked around, surprise on her features. “Mallt-y-nos! From the ancient depths of Albion’s past!”  
  
A smile like a cat’s spread across the woman’s features, still shifting, still coming close to Morgana’s but without looking human when put together. “My, what a clever witchling you are. Even your Old Religion had forgotten me, so long ago was your land mine instead.”  
  
Before humans had domestic animals, or metal, or writing, it was said that there had been a woman of terrible beauty and fear who had ruled over them like a goddess. She had fed on blood, and the last breaths from people’s lungs, and had promised them immortality if they served her, with a cauldron that could bring the dead back to life.  
  
“You were banished beyond. Not even Annwn would take you.”  
  
“And where do you think you are?” Mallt laughed, and this time the sounds were bitter, as she swept her other arm to encompass the nothingness around her. "Until that great tear was formed by some fool magic-user on Samhain, I did not think there was a way back to the world of the living. But small holes still remain, and through them...” she raised a handful of the shining light from the cauldron, letting it trickle through her fingers like liquid and roll in drops down her arm. “There are ways.”  
  
“The Cailleach holds back creatures like you.”  
  
“My _sister_ knows that I once walked your world. I will not tear through realities just by returning to it.”  
  
Her teeth were very white when she smiled, too even and too sharp. Morgana remembered how she used to smile at the thought of letting Morgause back into Camelot.  
  
“The world changes,” Morgana replied, quietly. She could taste magic in her mouth, on her tongue, surprisingly bitter but sparkling, sour as vinegar. “You are not welcome back in these lands.”  
  
“Who says such?”  
  
“I am Morgana Pendragon, next in line to the throne of Camelot, High Priestess of the Old Religion.” She raised one hand in front of her, feeling her magic bubbling underneath her skin, all of the power that had been held back for the last weeks, the last months, urging her to release it now. Her fingers curled halfway towards a fist, cupping air, but she felt on her hand weight like a great stone – or a great hunk of metal. “And I say such.”  
  
The world flashed gold around her as she clenched her hand into a fist. She felt her fingers tearing through metal, felt the world crumple beneath her fingers – and heard a piteous, terrible scream as Mallt watched the cauldron fold in on itself like a leaf beneath a stone. The light from it spilled out in a terrible rush, pouring across the gritty floor, as cold as crystal and shining, throwing silver-bright light in all directions, up into the faces of the still-bound figures who began to twitch and stir.  
  
Mallt dropped to her knees beside the cauldron, clawing at the twisted shape with hands that were forgetting what form they were supposed to be, as white as bone and sharp as knives, skittering and screeching on the surface. Cold rushed through Morgana’s body in the wake of her magic, and she almost stumbled, but instead clenched her hand again and heard the wind roar in her ears as the cauldron collapsed further in on itself, black surface cracking and shearing.  
  
“I opened the gate for the Dorocha,” she said, over the keening whimpers which were all that now escape from Mallt’s lips. The flesh on the shapes of bones was beginning to melt, fading away and leaving darkness and shadowed suggestions of shape in its way. “And after it was closed I drew one through it once again. There is only one more powerful than I, and he does not tread here.”  
  
Emrys. The thought made her lip curl, made her want to spit onto the ground, but she resisted. With another flare of her anger the cauldron shattered, fragments scattering across the floor, even as Mallt tried to scrape them back together. Hair withered on the figure’s head as it became nothing more than a silhouette once again, and as it turned with a snarl on its lips there was barely enough face for the expression to show.  
  
“Witchling! The beyond knows the smell of you now!”  
  
“Then let it come,” replied Morgana, unable to help the smirk that crept onto her lips. She bent down to pick up one of the largest pieces; it felt like neither stone nor metal in her hand, too close to the temperature of her flesh, smoother than glass but not slipping against her skin. Her hand wrapped so tightly around it that the edges cut into her fingers, and she felt the bite of blood, the bruises that must cover her body from the magic blows it had suffered, but she did not care. “I am ready for it.”  
  
She took hold of Mallt’s shoulder in one hand, gripping so hard her knuckles whitened, and drove the shard of cauldron through her heart.  
  
A dreadful scream ripped the air apart, ripped her mind apart, and everything shattered around her as the between-beyond world they stood in collapsed, and realities tore themselves to separation once again.


	12. Chapter 12

This time, surely, she was dead. She had felt the whole of creation explode inside her head, and had been torn to form a hole from beyond the world. The Dorocha had screamed into her, plucked at her body from every angle, torn her into shreds in an attempt to make her one of them. She had felt herself be destroyed.  
  
It was rather a surprise, therefore, when she opened her eyes to find herself still standing outside the castle of Powys.  
  
There was commotion, but not fighting: people were shouting and running around, but it was the circle of figures lying on the ground that held everyone’s attention. The hounds had vanished, the soldiers remained alive, and torches still lit the night. Morgana looked around, bewildered for a moment then recognising the other women from the beyond, the ones who had been missing. She was still looking around, though, the world reeling slightly with each move of her head, when Olaf appeared in front of her, brow furrowed, dried blood on his cheek.  
  
The pain in her side reasserted itself, the broken rib grating as she bent over instinctively, cradling it with her hands. They were still sticky with blood, tiny cuts all over tearing with each minute movement of her fingertips.  
  
Hands wrapped around her shoulders, holding her up, and it struck her as the most tender touch she had felt in more time than she cared to speak of. Looking up from beneath the hair that straggled across her face, she realised that Olaf was supporting her. “What happened?” he asked, gruffly. “There was a flash, and then...”  
  
Time had not passed here. The white bond that had held her magic was still clutched in his hand, smeared with mud. Her eyes fixed onto it as the world swam. “It’s complicated,” she said. She did not have the strength for the full story, but she could see the disapproval that crossed Olaf’s face as she spoke, and braced herself to add: “The creature behind this... is no more. I have ended it.”  
  
She struggled to read the emotion that flickered across his face, but rather supposed it came from a renegade usurper witch saving his Kingdom and daughter from something unspeakable. Exactly what feelings that brewed in him, she did not particularly care to know. He looked her in the eyes for a long moment, long enough that she saw gratitude in the mixture there, and it was she who broke the gaze off before she allowed herself to see too much.  
  
He seemed finally to realise her injuries, as his hands spasmed tighter and he looked around sharply. “Aeslyn!” he called. “Aeslyn, over here! The Lady Morgana requires assistance!”  
  
She allowed other arms to wrap around her, as her mind went blank and worked on understanding that her body existed. The amplified awareness of her pain was, she could not help but think, more bearable now that her magic made her remember just how alive she was.  
  
  
  
  
With magic and excitement still buzzing in her veins, even her heavy muscles could not make Morgana desire to sleep, and she remained seated as Aeslyn checked her side – announcing that little could be done but to let the rib heal by itself – and ran hands down her back searching for any other broken bones, then cleaned her hands, slowly when she realised just how torn the flesh was. Red and grey swirled in the water, and Morgana watched the shapes of the colours in the torchlight. She could feel rhythm in the sound of the rain outside now, feel how the earth felt as the sky reached down to touch it. She had not realised how much had been missing.  
  
Aeslyn used soft linen to wrap Morgana’s hands, now not speaking but not acting with the brusqueness that Morgana had previously seen in her. She was just tying knots in the linen – on the backs of Morgana’s hands, where it would not pull – when there was a sharp rap at the door, then it opened and a guard stepped smartly through.  
  
Olaf followed him. Even in the torchlight Morgana could see redness around his eyes, pride in the smile on his lips. “My Lady,” he said, voice now showing the respect that she had prickled to demand from him in earlier days. “There is someone who wishes to speak to you.”  
  
Morgana’s brow furrowed, and she was about to ask who could possibly wish to speak to her, especially at such an hour, when Olaf stepped aside to leave Vivian framed in the doorway. There was a smudge of dirt just beneath the princess’s ear, and a fragment of leaf in her hair, but she was wearing a clean dress and looked at Morgana with a clearer gaze than she had in a long time.  
  
“My father says that... you saved me.” Vivian’s voice was quiet, less insistent than before. She clasped her hands in front of her, unclasped them, then put them together again quickly, but her eyes never left Morgana’s face. “He said that those creatures were coming for me, but that you went in my place.”  
  
The words caught her completely by surprise. Blinking, Morgana nodded, slowly. “I suppose so.”  
  
“You risked your life for me. Nobody’s even done that before... not since Arthur.”  
  
She saw the hitch in Olaf’s breathing, but then the deep breath he took, making him swell up with pride, as Vivian continued.  
  
“I wanted to thank you. Maybe you are as good as him, after all.”  
  
Morgana met Vivian’s gaze, the _truth_ in her eyes that had been missing all this time, some sort of clarity rather than the clouds of obsession that had surrounded her. Somewhere, there was still the girl that had gone to the tops of the towers with her to look out over the beauty of Camelot, and hesitated for a telling moment before declaring that she _supposed_ it might be considered as beautiful as Powys.  
  
She could still taste magic in her mouth.  
  
From the depths of her memories, from somewhere in everything that she had read or dreamt or been told by Morgause, from somewhere in the magic that had formed her life for these years, a memory drifted upwards. Morgana rose to her feet, slowly with the stiffness of bruises, and crossed to where Vivian was standing. They stood almost eye to eye. She held out her hands, palm up, and Vivian paused for only a brief moment before taking them.  
  
“I realised that I wanted to save you,” said Morgana, quietly.  
  
Vivian looked perplexed. Olaf started to turn, and she could almost see the question forming on his lips, but with a smile she could not help Morgana ignored him.  
  
Instead, she leant forward, and pressed her lips to Vivian’s.  
  
There was no great magically-charged burst of song, no shaft of moonlight cutting through the clouds outside. But Vivian froze, her spine stiffening, until she seemed to soften into Morgana’s touch, her fingers curling around the hands she held, lips curving to press back. Something prickled across the point on Morgana’s wrists where their bare skin touched, but that could have been her imagination just as much as it might have been something real, and Vivian drew in a deep breath that seemed to mean everything all by itself.  
  
Then Olaf made a choking sound beside them, and the moment ended. Vivian drew back sharply, still holding Morgana’s hands, and looked at her with a sharper confusion dawning in her eyes. “You...” she started, but didn’t seem to quite know where to take the accusation. “I...” A glance around, taking in the torchlit room, the guard and the physician and her father standing by, Morgana’s wild appearance and her own dishevelment. She released one of Morgana’s hands, reaching up to pluck the leaf out of her hair, and looked at it with pursed lips.  
  
“Vivian?” said Olaf, and the tremble in his voice meant that Morgana could not look around and meet his eyes.  
  
She watched, though, as Vivian turned, blinked as if still waking up, and looked to her father with true attentiveness in her gaze. “Yes?” she said, hesitantly.  
  
Olaf let out a sigh full of such relief that he did not need to speak. He stepped forward, threw his arms around Vivian, and clutched her tightly to his chest, somehow all without a sound of protest leaving her lips. Morgana stepped back to see the tight embrace, Vivian holding her father in return, though a hint of confusion remained in her features, like something that she could not quite remember on rising from a dream.  
  
“My daughter,” Olaf whispered, hands shaking on Vivian’s back. “Vivian, Vivian, my daughter.”  
  
He didn’t even threaten her with a knife, Morgana realised. Perhaps all of them had changed.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Only the next morning did everything become real. Morgana awoke from the exhausted sleep that had finally overcome her to find sunlight across her bed, the bonds removed from her wrists. She reached up to gently run her fingers over the bracelet that had been returned to her, heavy and warm with her skin, carvings picked out on the metal surface. Her bracelet, Morgause’s bracelet, the only thing that had ever been able to make her dreams bearable. The first clue that had ever been given to her as to who she was.  
  
The movement made her muscles grate against each other, and she drew in a sharp hiss of breath as her arms dropped back to her chest again. The pain in her side reasserted itself, the soreness in her head and neck, but with it the thrill of her magic, unleashed, ready to live once again. Every breath let her feel the beauty of the air fill her, every mote of dust sparkled in the sunlight. Doubtless it would not feel so overwhelming for long, but she was content to feel it whilst it lasted.  
  
“Morgana?”  
  
The voice startled her, and she looked round to see Olaf sitting at her bedside once again. There was a cut on his cheek, a dark brown line of blood, and deep shadows beneath his eyes, but he was not looking at her with anger.  
  
Morgana managed to prop herself up on her elbows. This time, she had no angry reply, no cutting remarks to give. “Yes?”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He had said it before, when he had realised that she had chosen the safe path when it came to trying to help Vivian. This time, though, it was softer.  
  
“Surely you did not wait all night just to say that.” She found herself smiling, just slightly, nothing wicked or sly about it this time. In reply, Olaf merely shifted his gaze just beyond her, to the far side of the wide bed, with a slight nod. Morgana looked round, surprised all over again to see Vivian lying beside her on top of the coverlet, head pillowed on one arm, looking peaceful and angelic in sleep.  
  
“She did not want to leave you,” said Olaf by way of explanation. It made something contract in Morgana’s chest. “And I was glad to see a night that she did not cry herself to sleep over Arthur Pendragon.”  
  
Arthur’s name rankled, the knowledge that he sat upon the throne that should be hers by right of birth, but it was distant and did not matter as much as it once had. It was suddenly enough to be alive, to feel the magic in her veins, to be the captive of no-one, not even her own hatred.  
  
“You have done as I asked,” he continued. “Kept your side of the bargain, and released Vivian from the magic laid upon her. She does not remember all of the last years, just a faint... hopelessness. But her obsession with Arthur is gone.”  
  
She almost wanted to hold her breath in anticipation as he continued, waiting to see what he would now say. As a user of magic, she was still as much an enemy of this kingdom as she was of Camelot, and by law she should be returned there, or put to death.  
  
Olaf seemed to have some trepidation of his own; he leant forward, setting his elbows on his knees, and laced and unlaced his fingers a couple of times before continuing. “Earlier in the night, I spoke to some of my council members about the revocation of the law on magic. To use magic as a weapon would still be as much a crime as any other attack – but magic by itself does not need to be a crime any longer.”  
  
The words struck her almost like a physical blow, and she clenched her hands to fists in the sheets. Of all the things that she had thought Olaf might say, that was not one of them; it was beyond what she could have possibly hoped for.  
  
“And if you wish to stay within the borders of Powys, I will offer you protection, and even vouch for you, should Camelot try to force your return.”  
  
At that, she could only stare, unable to think of words for a reply. Even those who had at one point treated her fairly had always turned against her in the end; never had someone started off in animosity and come to treat her well. No matter how much anger she had been able to find for people in the past, she could not bring herself to be angry at Olaf.  
  
“You really mean that?” was what she settled for.  
  
He nodded.  
  
She was spared from trying to come up with anything further as Vivian stirred beside her, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand. Morgana could not help but look round fondly, before catching the sentimentality and rolling her eyes at herself. She wriggled further up, to a seated position, as Vivian cocked her head to one side.  
  
“I still can’t quite believe that you did that,” said Vivian frankly. She rolled over onto her stomach, propping her chin on one hand. “I mean... you saved me.”  
  
She sounded surprised, though pleasantly so, as if it was a gift she had not been expecting. There was less bite than Morgana would have expected.  
  
A scraping chair on Morgana’s other side caught her attention, and she looked round to see Olaf rising to his feet. He inclined his head, and said: “I will leave you alone to talk.”  
  
Morgana still wasn’t sure whether Olaf had simply erased the kiss the previous evening from his mind. Usually, all that a man had to do was look at Vivian in an inappropriate manner to find himself needing to leave the kingdom or face a rather painful fate. It would make the most sense; Olaf did not strike her as unworldly enough to think that only a man could successfully bespoil Vivian’s honour. Though, as much pain as Morgana was in, and with everything that had recently passed, bespoiling anything was rather far from her mind at that particular moment.  
  
“You really... cared enough to save me.” Though there was a slight upward cant to Vivian’s words, it was not a full question leaving her lips.  
  
“It looks like it,” said Morgana. It had surprised her, as well, right up to the moment when the shout had left her lips. She could have claimed that she knew what was waiting for her wherever that knight was going, could have said that she knew it was the only way to stop the fear that was being spread across Olaf’s kingdom. But they would have been lies. At least in that instant, her only thought was that she did not want Vivian taken by the Cŵn Annwn to complete the nine that had been gathered. “You don’t still want me to magic you away to Arthur?”  
  
Vivian pulled a face, and Morgana had to suppress laughter. “Apparently he’s all that I’ve spoken about. I can’t imagine why! He was perfectly beastly to me when we were children, and no better when we were older... until he came over all obsessed with me.”  
  
“You don’t remember being obsessed with him?” The look of shock that crossed Vivian’s face was more than answer enough. Morgana felt a strange trickle of pity down her spine. “It was a spell. Cast on him first, to make him fall... in love with you, and then cast on you as well.”  
  
“A spell?” Vivian’s hand fell to the bed cover, fear tipping into her voice alongside the horror that had been there all along. It made her tone less amusing to hear.  
  
Morgana nodded. “And while his was broken... yours wasn’t. Until now.”  
  
“Until... last night,” said Vivian carefully. Her eyes still had that clarity about them, the look that Morgana had almost forgotten, so long had it been gone. Like looking at the sky without clouds all across it. She swallowed, rose to her knees, and looked Morgana in the eyes. “Until you kissed me.”  
  
“Yes.” It was barely more than mouthed.  
  
“Why did you do that?”  
  
“The mouth is a way in and out of the body, a way by which magic can come and go. It’s more powerful than most people realise.” The words came easily, but Vivian was giving her that deeply unimpressed look which expressed perfectly what she thought of them. “It seemed right.”  
  
This time, Vivian’s response was to lean forward, slide one hand onto Morgana’s shoulder, and kiss her in turn. Her mouth was soft, and magic’s breath if it wasn’t the first time that Morgana had been kissed in longer than she cared to think of. Impulsively, she reached up to cup Vivian’s cheeks and kiss her back, savouring the moment.  
  
It was Vivian who finished the kiss, as much as she had started it, with a little smile that had just a touch of smugness in it. She held Morgana’s gaze for a moment, then leant in again and planted a peck on the tip of her nose. “You know, sometimes I was really rather relieved that father sent all those boys away from me. And not just because half of them were only thinking of taking over Powys.”  
  
“Such flattery,” said Morgana. It didn’t stop her from smiling, though, as she remembered how they had been before, honest and argumentative and never holding anger for each other. She reached up, and plucked the shred of leaf out of Vivian’s hair. How it had managed to stay there all night was anybody’s guess.  
  
Vivian gave a shrug, and reached to take one of Morgana’s hands. She held it gently, careful with the bandages that were still wrapped around it. “Well, how about I get my own sorceress to keep them away instead?” Morgana was already considering a reply when she continued. “Or sorceress-consort?”  
  
“Only a few hours out of that spell and you’re already having good ideas. I can’t wait to see how things go from here.”  
  
At that, Vivian smiled as well, bright and undeniably beautiful. It felt like the sun was rising, and she had left all of her darkness either in Camelot or in the place beyond where the world had been torn away. Slipping her hand out of Morgana’s again, she got to her feet and ran a hand through her hair. “Now, I am going to dress, and go and talk to my father. It seems I have missed any number of things in the last few years.”  
  
“You and me both,” said Morgana quietly, but Vivian did nothing more than smile tightly at the observation before she turned to leave. Slowly, as her aches caught up with her, Morgana lay back down again and lifted her hand so that she could rest Morgause’s bracelet right over her heart. A night without terrors, and a morning without threats. She could not deny that she would by far prefer this life.


End file.
